


Magpie: One for Sorrow

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Magpies [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Confessions, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, References to Depression, References to Torture, Sickfic, Therapy, what actually happened in China
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-02-06 06:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 90,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12812052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: After the return, after the high profile cases, after the crash and burn of Devonshire Squires, Sherlock has to deal with a different kind of rehabilitation. John is forced to sit it out while others try to heal what is broken. Can reconciliation bring John and Sherlock back together?





	1. Prologue

Sherlock watches the magpie as it drops from branch to branch, moving down the large oak tree. Then, in a flash of white, black and iridescent blue-green, it swoops down to the lawn. After a moment to settle its feathers, it hops along, turning its head inquisitively, listening and looking at the lawn.

"You're way too optimistic." Had he said that out loud? Sherlock couldn't be sure. In the state he is in right now, conversations tend to happen in his head. In any case, the bird ignores him. It is too late in the year to catch an early worm; the winter solstice is tomorrow, and the ground is hard frozen, the grass white with frost. Then he shakes his head.  _Too slow._ His brain is still so fogged by the last two weeks that he is making basic mistakes like that. He knows that magpies don't eat worms; if it is foraging on the lawn, it will be looking for beetles.  _Corvidae Pica Pica_ , the magpie is an omnivore. At this time of the year, a large proportion of its diet will be carrion, small mammals killed by the cold, or road kill- rabbits and pheasants. Magpies aren't choosy, but they don't bother with worms.

He's come out here, to the far end of the Hartswood Manor garden to sit on a wooden bench. Behind him the bare limbed trees of a shelter belt planting cast shadows onto the lawn. The sun is so low in the horizon even at midday that it gives no warmth. The cold matches his glacial mood.

Unbidden, out of the dim recesses of his Mind Palace came a fragment of memory- a small boy watching a similar bird, whilst trying desperately to avoid crying. He'd run to the woods to escape a tongue lashing from his father, for yet again messing something up. He couldn't remember what it was that provoked the verbal assault. But he could remember the bird's harsh chirring call rasping against his senses, already set on edge by the confrontation.

Frank Wallace handed him a tail feather. "This one's from its mate. Sammy had to kill it with an air rifle yesterday."

"Why?" Sammy was the underkeeper. Sherlock didn't like him much. He never had time to answer questions, and once told him that he "didn't have time to waste talking to morons who wouldn't look him in the eye". Sensibly, Sherlock avoided Sammy, but sought the company of Frank. Frank Wallace was much better with questions, and he didn't mind that Sherlock wouldn't look at him.

The Scotsman had answered his question. "Caught it stealing eggs in the partridge huts; magpies are thieves. Now this male's hanging about wanting to know why its call isn't being answered."

Sherlock had examined the tail feather. Not quite as long as a pheasant's, but nearly; broader, more like a flight feather. It shaded from a light brown at the base by the quill through a shiny emerald green into a vibrant bright blue before ending at the very tip in the darkest shade of indigo. It was the most beautiful feather he'd ever seen, and his urge to cry disappeared at the sight of it.

The bird of his memory was still chattering, its grating cry echoing through Parham's North Woods.

"Why does it sound so cross?"

"Because it's alone now."

"But there are lots of other magpies around. Why does it care about the one that is gone?"

"Magpies mate for life. This one will mourn- that's what he's doing now. When he realises that his mate is truly gone, he will try to find another. If he doesn't succeed, then he's most likely to be dead of grief by the end of the winter. That's what the rhyme says anyway."

"What rhyme?"

Frank sat down on the stump beside Sherlock. "It's an old one; been around for years:

" _One for sorrow,_

_Two for Joy._

_Three for a girl,_

_Four for a boy._

_Five for silver,_

_Six for gold;_

_Seven for a secret never to be told._

_Eight for heaven,_

_Nine for hell;_

_And ten for the devil's own sell."_

"What does it mean?"

The gamekeeper smiled. "Whatever you want it to mean, Sherlock."

Looking at the solitary bird hopping about on the frosted grass of Hartswood Manor, he thinks he might finally understand what that magpie so long ago had been complaining about. To comprehend truly what it means to be alone, one has first to experience what it meant to be  _not_  alone. He is surrounded by people now, and yet Sherlock has never felt so alone.

_One is for sorrow._


	2. Waking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place two weeks *before* the events of the prologue; on the day of the epilogue of Devonshire Squires.

He isn't sure what wakes him, nor the exact moment that his consciousness returns, but his first thought is of Mrs Hudson. Or, more specifically, the scent of her brand of laundry detergent. She uses an old fashioned, hypoallergenic non-biological powder- which suits his sensitive nose and skin perfectly. And the sensation is unique, too, because unlike the modern housewife, Mrs Hudson still presses her sheets. The heat of the iron does something different to the cotton that he can feel; the high thread count means the fabric is soft and silky against those bits of his skin that aren't dressed in his Derek Rose pyjamas. The inside of his upper arm recognises the unique texture of a fibre woven from beech wood pulp into the softest jersey cloth.

Even before he opens his eyes, he also knows these are  _his_  pyjamas and sheets. There is the faintest trace of his cologne, which his half-awake nose promptly fractionates into the head notes of bergamot, the heart aromas of cedar wood, orris and Turkish rose, over the base notes of musk, sandalwood and amber. The complexity of the aroma is part of the pleasure of William Penhaligon's Hammam, a gentleman's cologne dating back to 1872. There is something deeply comforting in the scent, but Sherlock has never understood why it has that effect on him. Caught in that half-awake, half-asleep moment, he remembers the day that his brother had taken him to the little shop on Brook Street, in the summer between his first and second year of university. "Time to grow up, brother mine. If you're not going to dress smartly or cut your hair like a gentleman, you can at least  _smell_  like one."

That's when he realises that it has started again- the avatar voices. He sighs, and starts shoving Mycroft back into the room of his Mind Palace from whence he'd emerged. [S _hut up! I locked you in there for a good reason_ ] He takes pleasure in the look of annoyance on his brother's face as he slams the door and turns the key. But it doesn't shut the voice up; that smug tone drifts down the hall after him; "out of sight is not out of mind, Brother mine. I thought you might know that, but then, you are out of your right mind."

He ignores that and starts a languorous stretch – and gasps, as the motion sets off sharp stabbing pains that ricochete from the side of his neck to a point between his shoulder blades and then down to the right side of the middle of his back. He stops, paralyzed by pain mid-stretch, and his eyes snap open.

The light that floods in is unexpected; he can tell by the wavelength that it is natural sunlight, and, as his eyes adjust, that it is early afternoon. His brain wakes up enough to register that it is winter sunlight from a northern European location.

But nothing else is familiar.

[ _Where am I?_ ]A sudden jolt of anxiety rips away the last shreds of his dreamy state of mind. Nausea grips his gut as adrenaline tears through his half asleep body. Like a car going from zero to sixty in less than a second, his heart rate leaps to the point where he thinks it might blow apart like some over-stretched engine. [ _No, no, no- don't panic; not a good time for a panic attack_ ]

For a moment, as he struggles to get his breathing under control, he wonders whether this is another one of the hundreds of different places he'd woken up in while on his mission to take down Moriarty's network. [ _Stupid- don't be an idiot; that can't possibly be right_ ] Lars Sigurson wouldn't wear these pyjamas, sleep in these sheets, nor would he wear cologne that brand him English without even having to look. [ _Someone's broken my cover and imprisoned me_ ]

His brain is so  _slow_ \- but the pain tells him that he isn't getting any pain relieving drugs, so that isn't the cause of the slowness. Then he recognises the familiar chainsaw rasp on his nerves that says he is coming down from drugs. A horrible sensation- once felt, never forgotten.

[ _Distract myself- Deduce!]_

He very gingerly levers himself up onto an elbow, so he can look around the room. The afternoon sun is coming through three mullioned windows, set into a stone framework. The windows are old. Even from the bed he can see where the leaded lights refracted light with the warp and distortion of crown glass made before 1910. He'd grown up in a house full of such windows, but this is not Parham.

Sherlock looks around the room, which is sparsely furnished, indicative of…what? [ _Stop thinking; just observe]_  An upholstered chair- good quality and in a traditional style, but modern repro; it is joined by a chest of drawers and a large wardrobe, both of which look turn-of-the-century in style. His eye is trained to look at antiques as a way of deducing the wealth, status and history of a suspect. so he gathers in the data and concludes that he is in England, in a listed country house, owned by someone who does not have a great deal of money. Still, it isn't a hotel, but rather a home, and one that someone has tried to make comfortable. The walls are wood paneled, but instead of being stained brown as would they would have when first built, these have been painted a warm cream colour, which brightens the room. There is an old stone fireplace, with a plain wooden mantelpiece- modern for sure. The light fixtures are recent and the ceiling is newer, too. He knows there will be old timber beams under the plaster, holding up the floor above. From the angle of the sun and the absence of trees or buildings in the view he can see from the bed, he figures he is on an upper floor of a house in a rural setting.

There is a door ajar to the left, and Sherlock can see the gleam of white tiles- an ensuite bathroom, clearly a recent addition. The door to the right of the bed is older- the non-standard width a real give-away of its mid-seventeenth century origin, and it too is open a bit, presumably onto a hall landing [ _not a prison then?_ ]

He takes all of this in within seconds. So, why are  _his_  sheets on a bed he'd never slept in before?

Then the bodily sensations resume control. A piece of him just wants to curl up in a ball and give in to the pain, and try to escape back into sleep. But a horde of data is now swirling around his head about the room, where he is, and why he is there. He pulls a pillow back over his head, trying to drown out the rattling buzz of drug withdrawal [ _Stop!_ ] The runaway train of his thoughts ignores that plea. He is somewhere he doesn't know, in pain, coming down from drugs.

First things, first. [ _Get up; find drugs!_ ]

Sherlock considers the various aches and body parts that complain when he sits upright, and pulls the covers aside so he can put his feet onto the carpeted floor. With no memory of how he'd got into the strange room, he starts to check his body, to see if it is safe to stand up.

There are dressings over various wounds- the one on his neck demands the most attention, as his fingers explore very carefully. The bandage is over the jugular vein- but he has no memory of how he'd gotten it. He lifts the back of the black jersey long sleeved shirt of his favourite pyjama top, and lets his hand reach under to find a bandage half way up his back, on the right side. The other dressing he finds by reaching through the collar down between his shoulder blades. The motion scrapes the plaster on the top of his left hand; he looked at it carefully, and then pulls up the edge of the adhesive to take a look at the wound. Considering the location of the torn flesh and its state of healing, he deduces that it is from a canulla, and fairly new. [ _Someone's been pumping me full of drugs, just not the right ones_ ]

The second sight of the bathroom in his peripheral vision triggers a new realisation. His bladder is so full that it actually  _hurts_ , and he desperately needs a pee.

It isn't easy to convince his body and sense of balance to co-operate when he stands up. For a moment, the room spins and his right calf muscle cramps viciously, making him grunt with pain and squeeze his eyes shut, while he stumbles and puts his hand back down on the bed. Oddly, that helps him get his balance back, before his bladder demands  _right now_. He staggers off into the bathroom.

There is no window, but he decides against pulling the cord that will turn on the light, just making do with what comes in from the bedroom. He manages to get the seat up just in time before the urine flows, and wonders why it feels both amazingly good to pee while at the same time smarts a bit as muscles in his back complain. It takes a surprisingly long time to finish. After flushing, he shuffles over to the basin to wash his hands and without thinking looks at his reflection in the mirror over the basin. Sherlock watches his eyes in the reflected image narrow in disgust as he takes in the amount of scruffy beard stubble- at least two weeks' worth of growth. [ _I look as horrible as I feel_ ] This isn't the neatly trimmed effort that he'd worn as Lars; it is patchy and with odd curls and wispy bits, and just the sight of it makes his skin crawl.

Down one corridor of his Mind Palace, a smug voice can be heard: "Lost it again, little brother? No memory of your decline and fall? Dossing down with the dregs of London is just  _so_  unbecoming."

The thrum of adrenaline, driven by anxiety, resumes in his blood. For a moment, he can hear the whoosh of blood in his carotid artery; his inner ear seems to have decided to focus on that instead of anything sensible. In a rage, he shouts, "Shut up!" The snarl bounces off the white tiles. His gut twists, and he tastes bile in the back of his throat.

His ears hear the echo, so he must have said it out loud.

A faint but familiar whisper in his ear- "Hearing voices again? Talking to yourself? Tut, tut- you ARE far gone."

He manages, just, not to shout at Mycroft again. Instead, he closes his eyes, and imagines himself bricking up the corridor that has Mycroft's room in it. Cavity wall, two separate brick courses, with  _lots_  of sound insulation stuffed between the two. The bricks fly into place, the mortar setting hard in an instant.

That should do, for a while, anyway. He is sure he'd already done this construction work before and recently, too, but the bastard still keeps managing to worm his way out.

He stares in the mirror, trying to control his features so they look less manic. [ _Get a grip! I can do this_ ] His self-loathing drives him to open the mirrored cabinet open to see if there is something to deal with how awful he looks. His straight edge is nowhere in evidence, not even a disposable bladed razor. There is, however, an electric shaver, battery powered, which he immediately sets to use. While he shaves, his eyes are free to wander and they take in the contents of the shelf over the taps: his brand of deodorant, shampoo and toothpaste, all new and unopened.

He doesn't need the mirror to shave, every time he looks it, he feels a rising tide of shame so strong that it makes him want to vomit. The whirr of the rotary blades and their pull on his face follow him as he wanders back into the bedroom. On impulse, he opens the wardrobe with his free hand and sees his suit hanging alongside several clean and ironed shirts. There are casual clothes, too. His cashmere dressing gown is on a hook. A glance in the chest of drawers reveals underwear, tee shirts and socks [ _not indexed properly!_ ] The voice shouts so loud that he has to fight the urge to put the shaver down immediately and replace things correctly in order to shut it up.

He doesn't understand why the sight of his socks should make his eyes prick with tears, but it is frightening him. Someone has gone to considerable trouble, and yet he is in a place he does not recognise at all. He has no memory of how he'd got here, either. His anxiety increases, and paranoia takes flight.

oOo

In the kitchen downstairs, George hears the toilet flush, then the sound of water running. He had decided against going into Sherlock's room; he wanted it to be a sanctuary, rather than a combat zone. While he listens, that pile of medical files weighs heavily on his mind. Sherlock had been subjected to a life time of failed treatments, not one of which seemed to have made any difference at all. Most of the people he worked with as a PTSD counsellor were very different; so called "normal" servicemen and women who had experienced something traumatic and been changed as a result. With therapy and support, they were able to find their way back to normality; they wanted to get better. They weren't always successful, but they tried.

George had come to an important conclusion overnight- none of that applied to Sherlock. Nothing about Sherlock conformed to anything he'd known, so the rule book will have to be ignored. One thing he is sure of now; Sherlock would only be helped if he agreed to it, and he had never agreed to it before. So, something new is going to be needed.

It is an almost impossible task. Making it interesting isn't going to be enough. He has to convince Sherlock to accept that avoidance was not possible, but that everything else would be in his control. There would be no set programme, no formulaic approach. No hoops to be jumped through. The option of  _not_  engaging is not an option, but everything else would be.

He can hear the creaking floorboards that say the patient has not gone back to bed. He finishes the last two pages of the chapter and then gets up to put on a new CD, returning to his chair, but re-positioning it so he is facing with his back to the door. Even though it wars with every one of his own military trained instincts, he wants to give Sherlock total control and no reason to avoid entering.

A short time later, he hears footsteps, in leather shoes, not slippers. Down the stairs, then along the hall to the kitchen, pausing on the threshold, but not entering. George doesn't look up from his book.

"Corelli, Sonata Number Two in B-flat major, Opus Five. Is that Manze playing?" The baritone voice that utters this is flat, without emotion.

Without looking up at the voice's owner, George consults the CD box. "Yes."

"Who are you?" There is the tinge of suspicion in the young man's tone.

"George Hayter." He still doesn't look up, returning to the novel.

"I didn't ask what your name is."

George thought about the question and decides that Sherlock has a point. He puts the book down and raises his right hand, extending his index finger so it could be seen from where Sherlock is standing. "It was my fingerprint on Alex Robbs' body."

"Oh… so, you're the medic attending the fights."

As he answers, George risks turning to take a quick glance, but doesn't connect; Sherlock's eyes are roaming over the kitchen.

"Not all of them. Missed yours; but, I picked up the pieces with Stuart Bradshaw. He stayed here with me for a week after he was discharged from hospital."

"Who's he?" Sherlock is staring rather intently out the kitchen window, which looked onto the courtyard. Across the gravel, he will be seeing the Hartswood Farm house and the outbuildings.

"You know him as the Cunningham Crusher. Thanks to you, I helped him recover from a crushed vertebra- rather ironic, that. Lucky for him, you knew your anatomy well enough to stop the fight so he didn't get spinal damage. Unlucky for you, you didn't show the same concern about your own injuries as you did with his."

George watches as Sherlock registers this comment. Clean-shaven and fully dressed, the dark blue suit and purple shirt change his appearance dramatically. Apart from the bandage peeping out of his shirt collar, he looks like his photos in the papers and on the television. A bit thinner, perhaps, but the transformation is startling, from the dreadfully ill man George had seen in the Shootfighter's Gym. He drops his eyes again before Sherlock can start to feel uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

He stands up and heads for the sink. "Want a cup of tea?" He starts to fill the kettle.

"No."

"You should drink something; you're still dehydrated."

"I'm fine."

Hayter snorts. "So says a man who allowed a simple injury to turn into a life-threatening infection, then ended up in hospital, delirious with fever and in desperate need of surgery." He rattles this off, wondering how much of this Sherlock remembers.

Turning off the tap, George continues, "Okay, I will admit that I am impressed at your 'mind-over matter' approach; most people carrying your set of injuries would be hard pressed to crawl out of bed, let alone look as together as you appear to be. But, medical data- well, it doesn't lie. You're a scientist, facts are facts."

Sherlock ignores that completely. "Do you know where my phone is?"

George shakes his head, while he filled the kettle. "Why do you want your phone?"

"To call a taxi."

He plugs the kettle in. "You want to leave  _now_. What do you think the odds are of that happening?"

Silence.

George busies himself with the tea- rinsing the pot in hot water from the tap to warm it, putting the three teaspoons of loose leaves in, getting two mugs out, finding the strainer from the drawer. This conversation has headed for confrontation faster than he had thought it would; he's been counting on Sherlock's physical injuries and drug withdrawal symptoms on being enough to keep him more dependent for a while. He's underestimated Sherlock's pain threshold, and his ability to sublimate the discomfort to his need to get away. He had been warned- Esther had told him that Sherlock was the master of avoidance as a coping strategy. He decides that he would have to escalate the discussion, to see if Sherlock can come to terms with the arrangement.

"What can you remember of last Friday night?"

Just before the kettle boiled, George switches it off and poures the contents into the pot, slipping the tea cosy over it. When he turns back, Sherlock is still standing in the kitchen doorway, silent.

George lets an eyebrow rise. "Something? Anything?"

Sherlock looks away, down at the floor to George's right. "Not much. It's all…rather hazy."

George puts the two mugs on the table. "Weak or strong?"

"Weak, no milk, no sugar."

There is the slightest hesitation in that instruction, which George noted.  _He's changed his normal routine; wonder why?_

"Well, it's to be expected, I suppose. You were running a temperature of over 40 degrees, and high on both morphine and cocaine, so the details are likely to be a bit sketchy."

He gives the pot a vigorous swirl, and lifts the quilted cosy off.

Sherlock's brow is furrowed. "I wasn't due to fight, so I don't understand why I am here."

"You  _picked_  a fight, with Alex Cunningham- not in the boxing ring, in a treatment room. Does that ring a bell?"

After a moment, Sherlock replies tentatively, "Not a proper fight…I was there to stop him…" Then more firmly, "…the Mozambique connection; I was trying to save the life of Kirwan's informant."

"Morrison is his name. And he's alive, thanks to you. He survived the emergency tracheostomy, and has been spilling the beans to the Metropolitan Police, who told me to tell you that this is, and I quote, 'the biggest shipping scam of the century.'"

Sherlock snorts with derision. "The century's still young; lots of time to push this one into the shade." He shifts his weight; George watches him trying to suppress the involuntary spasm of his abdominal muscles. He pours the weak tea, no milk, no sugar, and pushs the mug towards Sherlock.

"Sit down, before you fall down. You really do need some sugar, or something to eat. Your blood chemistry is all over the place. You're putting a brave face on it, but you must be feeling like shit."

Sherlock steps into the kitchen to brace himself with a hand on the back of the wooden chair that George had vacated, but he doesn't sit down. With his free hand, he picks up the cup and takes a big swallow. George fills his own cup with milk and then strains the tea into it.

George resumes. "Do you remember what happened to Cunningham?"

"No."

This is said very quickly, and he wonders about the anxiety that might have driven it. Not knowing could be intensely disconcerting for someone like Holmes, whose self- image depended on the acuity of his memory. A piece of him hated doing this, but George has to push Sherlock to the point of realising his need for help. If those files are anything to go by, just telling him he needed help won't work. He finds himself remembering Watson's comment. "He'll find his own way back, if he thinks it's worth it."

So, he pokes again at the anxiety. "Can you remember who else was in the room?"

"No,"  almost as quickly. Then, "Presumably, you were." This is said in a flat tone devoid of emotion.

George notes Sherlock's inability to recall that John Watson had been there with him. He knows, instinctively, that he has to be totally honest with Sherlock- anything less would be deduced, according to Esther Cohen, and held against him.  _Beginnings are so hard._

"Nope. I was in the corridor. Close enough to hear what was going on but not in the way. Think harder."

George takes his tea and leans back against the kitchen counter, watching Sherlock trying to figure it out. Two furrows appear between the younger man's eyebrows. These suddenly vanish and his expression becomes one of incredulous anger. "Was my  _brother_  there?"

"Yes."

" _WHY?!"_  This is shouted in fury.

George registers the emotional lability; Sherlock has gone from numb to outraged in a single moment. He tries to calm things down.  _"_ You'd been missing for more than a week- and he figured it was the one place you'd turn up." He decides to press on. "Shall I tell you what happened to Cunningham? You took him apart at the seams; he's alive, but only just. You fractured his skull in three places. And the second two fractures were inflicted when he was already unconscious. Can you remember why you would do that?"

Sherlock looks down, his shoulders shifting a little awkwardly. "He had a knife- I was unarmed; self-defence."

George lets his eyebrows show his scepticism. "That might work for the first facture, but not for the other two."

He sniffs. "Diminished responsibility. You said I was delirious with fever."

George nods. "It might work with a jury, should he bother to prosecute. You'll probably be lucky though- he'll be too busy defending himself and his firm from the criminal prosecution to worry about an assault charge." He pours himself a second cup of tea. "Do you remember the injury that led to your infection?"

"No; it's irrelevant." Flat, devoid of emotion again, as if he couldn't care less.

George is startled by how fast the emotional cycling was; from livid to numb in under a minute. "In the fight with Crusher, he kicked you. Middle right side of your back- dislocated the eleventh rib, and jammed it into your kidney. Must have hurt like hell. Infection set in- both in the joint and the kidney. You used morphine to deal with the pain, when you needed antibiotics instead. And because you are an addict, you decided it was better to leave home and sleep rough to make sure that no one stopped you from using your drug of choice."

Through clenched teeth, Sherlock snaps, "It was for a  _case._ "

"You're a chemist, I've been told. So you know that opiate use releases inhibitions, increases impulsiveness and risk taking behaviour, plus it causes a clinically proven rise in aggression. So, getting deeper into the fight club must have felt logical, and had the added benefit of letting loose some of that pent up anger."

"Is this what you say to all of the fighters you bring home to fix up? 'Get out now before you really get hurt?' Life in the City too boring for you that you have to go get a fix of playing omniscient doctor?" The questions are snidely put.

George continues as if he hasn't heard. "Because drug taking and fighting are probably going to attract unwanted attention, you disappear. Quite convincingly, too. No one has a clue where you were."

Sherlock draws an impatient breath. "No one cares. No one  _should_  care; it's my business what I do, what I decide is necessary to complete the case. I don't need anyone else to tell me what to do."

"Who were the people getting in the way?"

"Interfering busy bodies who think they know better. People who tell me what they think I should do. People like  _you."_

"I'm not judging you, Sherlock.

"Good." Sherlock drains the tea, and puts his cup down firmly on the table. "Right. Thank you for your hospitality, I'll be on my way now." He starts towards the phone that is on the kitchen wall.

"That's not going to happen- you're not ready to leave."

"Says who?" There is an undercurrent of menace in the baritone.

"Everyone."

Sherlock draws his hand back from the phone. "Who's  _everyone_?" He doesn't turn around to look at Hayter.

"Your brother, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Even your housekeeper, who packed your things for here." George makes a calculated decision to leave John Watson out of the mix. Sherlock's mood is too volatile to risk triggering another episode.

"What do  _they_  know? None of them has any right to stop me from doing what I want and going where I want."

"Even if that means you end up nearly killing Cunningham, and neglecting yourself to the point where you have to be hospitalised? That sounds to them like you're close to the brink."

"Been talking to Mycroft, have you? That's his usual game- claims I'm unwell and uses it as a way to control me."

George hears the paranoia. "How far does it have to go before  _you_  know that you've gone too far? Self- destructive behaviour is one thing, but can you remember how you got that wound on your neck?"

For a moment, that stops Sherlock, and George watches confusion take hold. "I…uh, I don't know. In the fight, I suppose."

"No, it happened  _after_  Cunningham was unconscious on the floor. You had a psychotic episode, claimed that 'no one would ransom a dead man.' Called it a 'self-fulfilling prophecy' and started to slice through your own jugular vein. Is that far enough for you to realise that you've gone too far?"

"I'm  _fine!_ " Sherlock whirls around, his face now flushed with anger. "You said you weren't  _judging_  me."

George doesn't shift his position, just stays leaning casually against the counter-top. "I'm not. We are having this conversation because they've asked me to see what I can do to help stop you from going that far."

"It's none of  _their_  business, nor yours."

"They're your friends and family."

"I don't have  _friends."_ He lets his destain drip from the word. "And, as for family, unfortunately, one doesn't get to choose one's brother. I got stuck with one who likes to play God. Well, let's just call this me being Lucifer. I'm happy enough to be cast out of his vision of heaven. Not mine, never was."

Sherlock walks to the kitchen door, anger telegraphed in every stride. He turns just a bit, so his words will carry. "It's not fair- you can be emancipated from your parents, reject offers of friendship, divorce a wife. But a brother? There's nothing short of fratricide." Then, he turns on his heel and leaves the room.

Now George is in motion, following Sherlock down the hall to the front door.

"I should warn you what is likely to happen if you walk out the door."

Sherlock looks back over his shoulder. "Oh, really? Now you're going to tell me that Mycroft has minions who are listening into this conversation. Well, save your breath. I picked up at least a half dozen cameras and bugs on my way down the stairs." He stops, and then leans forward, like some sharp eyed raptor. "And you people wonder why I'm paranoid. Maybe, just maybe, it's because it's warranted."

He looks up the stairs, before continuing in a louder voice. "And I should warn whoever Mycroft has left behind that I am not in the mood to be stopped. That might have worked before, but I've had two years of playing hard to get with people who are far worse than whatever you might throw at me."

Sherlock reaches for the Yale lock latch and the door handle. "You see, they're handicapped; they don't want to hurt me. But I have  _no_  such compunctions about them."

George did not want to do this, not yet. But Sherlock is leaving him no option. "Yeah, I kind of figured that out while you were still unconscious. That's why I insisted on a game changer."

The door is open, but there is something in George's tone that made Sherlock stop and look back at him.

"That wound in between your shoulder blades? It's a GPS tracker. Under the muscles, tucked in nice and tight to the T5 vertebra. Whatever you do, Sherlock, you won't be able to disappear. It's your safety net."

Without thinking, Sherlock explodes into action. He shoves Hayter hard on the right shoulder whilst sweeping his legs right out from under him. The big man lands hard with a gasp. Then the door is thrown open and Sherlock bolts from the building.


	3. Cold Conversation

By the time George gets his breath back, scrambles to his feet and manages to get out the door, Sherlock is already trying the door handles on the second car, a Landrover Discovery, parked in the courtyard. That's when Alex Arthur comes around the corner of the end house and called out.

"Holmes. Don't bother." The big ginger man waves a handful of keys. "They're all locked."

Sherlock takes several long strides into the single storied carport and picks up a shovel. When he comes back across the gravel, Arthur has come close enough that he doesn't need to shout.

"I've got a pocket full of distributor caps. Even if you break a window, the cars won't start."

Without a word, Sherlock drops the shovel and strides away, out of the courtyard and onto the tarmacked driveway.

When the agent starts to follow, George calls out. " _Don't_!"

Arthur glances back, and must have seen that Ashley Lewis coming around the corner, so he stops for a moment. "Got him on the map?" he asks his colleague.

The dark-skinned man nods, "Sure. Tracker's working fine."

George decides that enough is enough. "Right then, stand down, both of you."

The two look at him like he is insane.

He sighs. "It will take him at least fifteen minutes to get to the junction with the main road. He's in no shape to walk any faster, or to attempt to run. That's enough time for you to get that damned distributor cap back in your car, unless you intended to frogmarch him back on foot." He tries to control his smirk. "If you were considering that, you should think again. He's perfectly able to stop you, even firing on half his cylinders." He eyes both men before continuing, "In fact, he could take both of you at the same time. Brute force is not an option; it's never been."

The big ginger-haired man looks annoyed for a moment, but then stalks over to the 4x4 and throws open the bonnet.

Lewis eyes him warily. "What's your plan, sir?"

George doesn't let his smirk show on his face. The trouble with service people- even Mycroft's- is that obedience to orders is too ingrained for their own good. But, in this case, he is glad for their deference. Sherlock needs time on his own to think things through.

"Come with me." He walks back into the middle house, with Lewis on his heels.

Esther Cohen has used the communicating door from his house to get in, and is now standing in the hallway, looking concerned. She hugs her cashmere twinset tighter as the cold comes in through the opened door.

"Are you alright?"

George snorts, "Of course; just caught me by surprise."

Esther gives him a sympathetic smile. "So, you're letting him run? Why?"

Before George could answer, Ingrid and Lidiya come through the door and into the hall. The Swedish nurse's worry is clear on her face. "We were watching next door- on their monitor upstairs. Are you injured?"

"No; of course not. He just wanted to get away. I pushed him too far."

Lewis's tone shows his scepticism. "He  _assaulted_  you."

George laughs out loud. "If he'd wanted to hurt me, he could have, and you bear the scar as a reminder of that fact."

"You're going to let him walk it off?" The psychiatrist does not try to hide the approving tone from her question.

George nods. "Yes. He's very volatile at the moment- probably due to the withdrawal symptoms starting. Once the flight impulse eases, he'll start thinking again."

Lewis's face shows his scepticism. "Are you seriously suggesting that he will  _voluntarily_  return here? There is nothing in his file history or current behaviour that says that is even a remote possibility." His incredulity is clear.

In the courtyard, the sound of a car starter motor can be heard. The engine caught and settles down to a duller noise.

George keeps his stance relaxed. "We have somewhere between twelve to fifteen minutes to find out if I'm right. Even if he gets to Dovers Green Road, then we've still got another half hour, because that's how long it will take him to walk into Reigate. You know as well as I do that he's not carrying a wallet or any change in his pockets, so a bus can't get him there any faster. Trying to hitch a lift? Not on a Sunday afternoon- traffic's too light. He's most likely on foot until he gets to a phone shop, where he just might blag his way to use their phone, in order to buy another, which is the only way he's going to be able to pay for a train ticket into London."

Lewis's brow furrows. "All of his accounts have been frozen; his cards have been revoked."

George chuckles. "You think he doesn't have something stashed away on an alias his brother doesn't know about? A guy who moved all over the world without leaving any traceable footprints?"

The agent crosses his arms. "So, what's to stop him stealing a car and just driving out of town?"

George mirrors the stance. "Think about the absurdity of everything that's just been said. We can  _track_  him. He wouldn't make it out of town before the police could catch him- if your colleague out there doesn't catch up with him first."

Esther speaks up. "Sherlock won't break into someone else's car just to go on a joy ride that he knows would get him caught. He's not stupid; don't ever underestimate him."

Lewis seems uneasy that the psychiatrist is backing up Hayter. The agent snaps, "Holmes has spent the last two years breaking the law in dozens of countries; he won't be deterred by a little car theft."

She crosses her arms and glares at the agent. "And you have absolutely no idea about what actually does motivate or deter him, so you'd best stop making stupid assumptions." She is positively bristling at the dark skinned agent.

George intervenes. "I suggest that everyone just calm down. Lewis, go get Arthur- there's no need for him to keep the car running. We have time."

Ashley briefly looks at the tablet he is carrying, and then sniffs. He reluctantly hands it over to George and then goes outside.

"Right, ladies…" George gestures up the stairs. "Lidiya- can you go get his coat and scarf? They're hanging in the cupboard in the loft room. I didn't want to give him any ideas of early departure by putting them in his room, but I'm regretting that now. He's going to be freezing out there."

Esther sighs.

George looks down at the screen and smiled. He tilts the tablet so Doctor Cohen can see it.

She peers at the map, and the red marker that is blinking. "What's that mean?"

Ingrid peers over the shorter woman's shoulder so she can see it, too. She smirks, "Is he a rugby fan?"

Esther looks utterly confused.

George comes to her rescue. "Sorry, I forgot you won't know the local area. That marker is his tracker; he's just half way down our private road; it's blinking because he's stationary."

Esther breathes a soft "Oh" and then takes a breath. "You think he's stopped; what…for a re-think? But, what does that have to do with rugby?"

"There's a bench, alongside the Reigate Grammar School rugby pitches. The marker shows he's sat down on it."

The petite psychiatrist is bemused. "Well, he's not watching, that's for sure. He  _hated_  rugby at Harrow. He used to say that it was 'a school-sanctioned opportunity' for others to beat him up. He got out of it at every opportunity, developing an alarming series of illnesses just to avoid the possibility of turning up on the pitch in his first year at school. Mind you, when he did actually have to play, he ended up injured, more often than not by being under a pile of boys relishing the opportunity to get even with that tongue of his."

The Swedish nurse speaks up. "So, not much of a team player, then?"

Esther giggles. "No, he hated rugby so much that he took up wrestling to be able to fight his way out of under collapsed scrums. He once admitted to me that the sole redeeming feature of rugby was that it taught him the true value of running away when the odds were overwhelming."

George is beginning to realise how important it was to have Esther on side. The fact that she has known Sherlock for so long adds so much more insight than the dry medical files ever could.

The nurse takes in Esther's comment. "So, why has he stopped walking? Could it be his injuries are hurting him too much?"

The grey haired doctor shakes her head. "He'd ignore the pain. It's logic that's stopped him."

George nods, and then explains to Ingrid. "I think that he's realised if he's going to get out of this situation, it won't be on an impulsive run down the road. He's going to have to detox, recover physically, and plan his escape- so he can find a way to get an illegal GPS jamming device. That will take some time. He's going to need a phone to do that. So, first thing, remind me to collect everyone's mobile. I've got to pass the numbers to Mycroft."

Esther gives him a cautious, but appreciative look. "You are beginning to get the idea. In my humble opinion, Sherlock's cleverer than Mycroft is, but don't ever tell his brother that I said so. Actually, I think half of the mind games that Mycroft plays with Sherlock are to keep him unaware of that fact, in the hope that he can manage to stay one step ahead of his brother. Sherlock is probably more cunning and certainly more willing to take risks. It will only be a matter of time before he figures a way out of this GPS thing. But, you've always known that, haven't you? Even when using it to convince his brother to let you do this."

He replies dryly, "I'm sure that Mycroft Holmes knows that the tracker just buys us a little time. We have to use the window of opportunity to convince Sherlock that getting better is actually a better way of escaping."

"How long will that window be open?" Ingrid looks worried.

"He's probably already plotting his escape. Detox will delay it, and he might wait until his injuries are healed enough. By my reckoning, and after today's performance, I think we've got no more than three weeks at best, maybe only a fortnight."

He sees the worry in their eyes, and nodded. "Yeah, I know- bit of a challenge."

oOo

Ten minutes later, the blinking spot on the map has still not moved.  _Stalemate_. George is both pleased that he'd been right, but frustrated that Sherlock has not come back.

The two agents are getting restless, and fractious, too. Because of their names, George tries to stop thinking of them as the A Team, because they would not appreciate the joke. The bigger freckled man starts muttering to his colleague, but George can’t catch any words of their exchange.

He makes an executive decision. "I'm going alone to pick Sherlock up."

By their reaction, he can tell that Ashley and Alex are not happy with the idea.

"You need back up, sir. What happens if he tries to take the car?" Ashely Lewis is polite, but making his point forcefully.

"Or attacks you again?" adds his ginger colleague. He doesn't bother to try to sound polite, going straight for a tone that is downright insulting, even a bit menacing.

"He won't." Esther is adamant. "He's not violent."

Lewis looks pointedly down at his own arm, "You could have fooled me."

"Both of you boys stay here- out of sight, next door. You have the tracker, you can see if there is a problem. If you don't like it, well, tough. He's my patient, and I need to do this my way."

When George gets in the car and turns the key, he hopes that they will all follow his instructions. The two agents had been banished back to the big house. Esther was to withdraw back in his sitting room, and the two nurses were not to be in the middle house by the time he got back. George wants Sherlock to go into an empty house, of his own accord. It has to be his choice, freely made.

He glances at the Belstaff, folded on the front passenger seat. George worries that getting chilled will not help Sherlock's physical recovery, but accepts the man's need to leave had probably been more important to his mental health.

George is only half way down the private drive from Hartswood to the main road when he spots the solitary figure sitting on the bench. He pulls the Discovery onto the verge, and leaves the engine running to keep it warm inside.

The ground is still frozen hard and crunches beneath his boots as he walks up to the bench. Sherlock is sitting casually, his eyes fixed on the empty playing fields, with their neatly chalked lines and the odd H shaped goal posts. The sun is beginning to dip below the tree line in the distance, and the wind has picked up now.

"You must be half frozen."

George puts the coat, scarf and gloves on the bench and then sits down on the other side of the bench. He follows the line of sight of Sherlock's gaze, wondering what the younger man is seeing out there in the empty pitches. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see involuntary shivering, and worries about hypothermia.

"If you relapse with pneumonia, your brother will use it as an excuse to hospitalise you again. Assuming you want to avoid that, I'd put on the coat if I were you."

There is a big sigh, but Sherlock complies, easing himself slowly to his feet before shouldering on the long coat. The scarf and gloves go on, and then the collar is turned up, before he sits back down. His eyes have not once moved off the tree line to look at George. The fading sunlight seems to make the man's grey eyes glisten. Are they tearing up because of the wind, or emotion? He didn't want to draw any conclusions without knowing more.

He has to start somewhere, and the opening gambit has already presented itself. "What made you stop here?"

No reply.

Maybe Esther's comments about Sherlock and rugby could be turned to his advantage. "The Grammar school runs these playing fields. Next week is a big sevens competition. They'll be out here practicing tomorrow."

That makes Sherlock's eyes narrow, so at least he is listening. George tried again. "Maybe you're wondering why not today? It's Sunday."

No response.

"Actually, I don't care why you stopped at this particular spot. I'm more interested in why you stopped, full stop."

"Why does it matter?" There is resignation in his tone.

 _Because I can use your answer to stop your brother interfering, if it was for the right reason._  George decides he can’t say that. Not yet. He is trying to figure out what to say when Sherlock's sigh interrupts his thoughts.

"I stopped because I realised that I  _can't_ remember _._  That's… strange. Unheard of. I remember  _everything._  I have to delete things manually, make conscious choices to forget the rubbish. The curse of an eidetic memory. But, important things I can always retrieve. Only, I can't remember how I got this wound on my neck." He sounds annoyed, frustrated. His gloved hands are still fumbling a bit with the buttons on his coat.

"I told you what I saw. I have no reason to lie."

That makes Sherlock turn his head to look at him. George keeps his eyes firmly on the field; no need to up the pressure. He's already hear undercurrents of anxiety in the man's voice.

"Don't you? All my life medical people have lied to me. Told me in no uncertain terms what their diagnosis is and that all I have to do is follow their stupid instructions, take their drugs, submit to their ridiculous therapies and I would be for ever better." He finishes buttoning up his coat. "It's all lies. They always end up blaming  _me_  when their potions and rituals fail to make the slightest bit of difference. I was –am- a  _bad_  patient."

He huffs and returns to staring at the setting sun, putting his gloved hands deep into his pockets for warmth. "But in all my trials and tribulations, I've never  _not_ been able to remember something this important. The drugs can make it hazy, and I have to work at it, but when I do, the memories come back." He gives a dry laugh, and takes a hand out of his pocket to gesture at his head- "like a hard drive; nothing's ever really deleted." He looks down at the ridges of mud, hard frozen beneath his shoes. "I don't like not remembering. I've never dissociated before, at least not that I'm aware of."

His use of the psychiatric term makes George wince. He files that observation away as something rather important.

A gust of wind whips across the field, making Sherlock's wavy hair move across his forehead. He sinks down a bit further into his coat. "You asked if I knew when I had gone too far. Well, failing to remember why I would take a knife to my own throat probably qualifies. At least in the past, when I've tried something like that, I was fully aware of what I was doing, and accepted the consequences."

George resurrects the information he'd read last night about Sherlock's three known suicide attempts. "Do you know what dissociation actually is?"

Sherlock snorts. "Tell me, why it is that every medical professional is arrogant enough to assume that I wouldn't do my own research? Of course, the problem is that even when I do, the vast majority of technical neurobiological chemistry research addresses so-called  _normal_  people. I'm not like you. No one ever seems to realise that when they trot out their useless drugs or meaningless therapy."

George could have cut the frustration with a knife, it is so thick in Sherlock's words. It makes him realise that Sherlock will argue about any proposed treatment from a position of knowledge, rather than dependency. But, if he could engage that intellect in his own treatment, it just might be enough to start him at it.

George decides that Sherlock's annoyance about the memory lapse might give him a way in. "Do you remember what happened at the hospital?"

Silence.

"That was nine days ago. For most of the time since you've been unconscious, sedated."

The only sound is the wind, as the sky darkened.

There is just enough light to see a muscle in the younger man's cheek twitch, as George continues, "I don't know about the first time you woke up, but the second time, you spoke with your brother and the third time, you had another psychotic break."

That makes Sherlock turn his head sharply, which must have hurt his neck, but he shows no sign of that when his eyes bore into George's. "What  _happened_?"

Now George has to decide how much to tell. It is too early to do anything but err on the side of caution. "You started shouting, panicking, trying to get away from one of the people in the room- that's how you tore out the cannula in your hand. According to you, he was dead, deleted."

Sherlock snorts. "I must have been in a bad way, otherwise I would have known it was useless. I've been trying to delete Mycroft for years; it never works.  _Dead_? Hah! Like a bad penny, he keeps turning up." He returns his gaze back to the treeline across the fields, where the last orange light is now coming through the bare branches.

George files away the fact that Sherlock has not connected his panic attack to John Watson.  _Deleted, indeed._  "Apparently, a bit more than two weeks ago you had a night terror, woke up shouting in Chinese about being tortured; do you remember that?"

"No. However, I do remember him going on about it in the morning. I just thought it was one of his little games. He likes to do this sort of thing, undermine my faith in my own sanity." Sherlock sighs. "It's usually a precursor of one of his attempts to incarcerate me. That's why I left Baker Street- just to avoid that particular scenario." He gives another involuntary shiver.

George is starting to worry about the cold. He needs to get Sherlock warm, but if he pushes too quickly, he'll provoke a flight response.  _Step One- keep the patient alive and physically well._  No matter what happens to his mental state, if Sherlock persists in neglectful behaviour, then there is no hope of making progress. He has to get him to take responsibility for his physical state. It will ground him better.

"What are you feeling right now?"

Sherlock's "I'm fine" is an almost instant response.

George shakes his head. "No, that's not what I asked. I didn't ask  _how_  you are feeling. I want you to describe to me what you are feeling physically, right now."

"Why?" He sounds suspicious.

"Just answer the question. Or are you unable to do so?"

Sherlock sniffs. The sky behind the trees was still tinged pink, but the sun has set. "I'm cold. I don't mind; it helps to numb the pain in my back."

"I'll bet; though all that shivering must pull at the intercostal joint of your eleventh rib. Bit of a bitch for pain, I reckon."

"By definition, I have no control over my parasympathetic nervous system."

That brings a smirk to George's mouth, "Of course, you do. Just come in from the cold. The car is warm, and will stop your shivering. Then we can talk about what next."

"You mean I actually have a choice? I don't think so." He sounds weary and fed-up.

"Within reason."

Sherlock grimaces. "Your definition of  _reason_  and mine are different."

"What would make it easier for you to return to the Manor?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because you need somewhere safe to go while you figure out how to solve this problem. What would make the Manor into that for you?"

"Call off the goon squad. Their stupidity offends me."

"I can keep them out of sight."

Sherlock snorts, "I'd prefer it if they were in the next county. But if that's not possible, then let me remove every single one of their spying devices."

George thinks about it. The tracker is enough. "Okay- but you'll have to be quick about it. My guess is that in about another couple of hours, you're going to be in full withdrawal, and not really up to it."

Even over the sound of the wind, George can hear a sigh, and a cloud of melancholia seems to descend on Sherlock. "Been there before. A nuisance, but only temporary."

"How many times?"

Sherlock looks pained. "More than I want to remember right now."

"Then you'll know that right now you need to get food and fluids into your system, before the worst happens. If you end up in hospital again, I can't guarantee that your brother won't revoke our arrangement."

A flicker of what George guessed is curiosity crossed Sherlock's features. "Why  _you_? Why would  _you_  get involved?"

He chuckles. "Maybe you were right- just another former Army doctor egotistical enough to think I can make a difference."

As Sherlock gets to his feet and heads off towards the car, George hears him mutter under his breath, "Well, good luck with that."


	4. Therapy

Mary watches the emotions chasing across John's face. It’s a bit past nine o'clock, and the Sunday night BBC drama she's tried to get him interested in watching is now paused, and recording. As the conversation progresses, she gives up hope of returning to it any time soon.

Since she can’t hear what is being said by George Hayter on the other end of the phone, she goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Somehow, she thinks John will appreciate a cup when he finished. And she  will use it as an excuse to entice him into talking more about Sherlock.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised. He's an escape artist."

She looks back at John on the sofa. Then he sits up, surprise in his eyes, spluttering, "no, never. Well, once- but that was for a case; he asked me to, and I gave as good as I got. He didn't hurt you, did he?"

As she slides the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, she tries to figure out what Hayter must be saying to provoke that reaction. It doesn't sound good. Mind you, she has to respect Sherlock's fighting abilities, given his two years undercover. John had told her that he was the one who used the gun; Sherlock used his wits, or his fists. She'd been there at the gym when he thrashed Cunningham, and even when unarmed was able to overcome Lewis and use his own knife against him.

A minute or so later, John speaks again. "Yeah, that would piss him off. Him and his bloody photographic memory." Her glance back into the living room registers that John has slouched back on the sofa.

Mary slips the knives and forks into the cutlery basket. She needs to know what is going on, has to find some piece of information, something private about Sherlock, which she can use as leverage if Mycroft tries to expose her. John has told her a lot about him, but nothing yet that could be really useful. She didn't like the thought of blackmail, but if the choice is using it to protect her life with John, then she would. Maybe, once Sherlock is better, he'll actually help in that. There is no love lost between the brothers; she has seen that for herself, as well as listened to John's stories.

From the living room, there is a snort of dry humour. "Yeah, well he can delete the basic facts of the solar system, because he thinks they're unimportant, so don't expect his choices to be logical. Importance is a relative concept in the Sherlockian universe."

By then the kettle has boiled and she fills the tea pot. The two tea bags of PG tips swell up and float on the top of the hot water, so Mary pushes them back down with the teaspoon.

" _How_  many?" Then a moment later John starts chuckling. "Serves Mycroft right. Talk about overkill." A moment later, this is followed by "Actually, it would have kept him busy; distraction eases the anxiety."

When the tea in the pot is dark and strong the way he likes it, she pours the milk first then the tea into two mugs and wanders back into the living room just in time to hear John say "No, I've got no advice to offer you on that one. He's been clean for most of the time I've known him. The only time I've been around for that was when we used rapid detox protocol. He was sedated for the worst of it, and depressed as hell afterwards. You've seen the file. That's not possible this time, because his kidney function is already compromised. Anyway, he went nearly catatonic after it, so with hindsight I'm not sure it was ideal."

She puts the cup down beside him, and when he looks up to mouth a silent "thank you," she gives him a sympathetic smile before curling up on the couch.

"Lestrade might know more; he's done it a few times, I think."

He is listening hard while he absent-mindedly takes his first slurp of tea, then grimaced as he realised it is still scalding. He manages to gasp out "What does Doctor Cohen have to say?"

Mary blows across the top of her own tea before taking a tentative sip.

Then John replies to whatever Hayter is telling him. "Well, as you're asking my opinion, he won't deal well with tapering. He's…" John stops, and closes his eyes for a moment. "He's an all or nothing kind of guy."

Whatever Hayter said, it makes John nod his head. But Mary gets the feeling it isn't in support of something that the other man has said- more like it has confirmed something John is worried about.

"Yeah, well, good luck. You're going to need it." John's tone telegraphs loud and clear to Hayter his frustration about not being there. And it is made even more transparent when he finishes the call with "Thanks for keeping me up to date; I mean what I said. Call me. Often." It is his Captain's command tone of voice, one that she has heard before, but never aimed at her.

He thumbs off the call, and then tosses his phone back onto the coffee table. His mood is angry, disturbed, and it worries her. She's been walking on eggshells all day. His silence on the way back from Reigate had been profound, and he'd kept his thoughts to himself all afternoon. At one point he said he "needed some air" and went off on a walk. She'd offered to come- "I could do with the exercise"- but he had shaken his head. "Sorry; I'm not good company at the moment. Just need to think on my own." He'd been gone about an hour, but when he arrived back, his mood was not much improved.

"So, Doctor Watson, what's the prognosis?" She tries to make it sound gentle, rather than flippant; she can’t help but worry about how seriously John is taking this. He's been upset for days and his mood seems to be getting darker with each passing hour. She needs to get him to open up to her –for both their sakes.

John sits forward, his elbows on his knees, and rubs his forehead. "I wish to hell I knew." He shakes his head slowly from side to side. "I just don't get it. First he says he did that two year disappearing act to somehow protect me, and next thing I know, I've been  _deleted_." He takes a couple of deep swallows of tea, then puts the mug down on the coffee table. He looks miserable.

"Tell me what happened."

"He bolted without thinking it through, then realised there was no point because George told him about the tracker on his way out the door. So, he's back at the Manor- mad as hell and going through withdrawal. He's slammed the door on the lot of them, saying he's going to do it on his own.

"Why is he doing this? What's really wrong with him?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know, do I? That's what's so annoying. If I was there, if I could just talk to him, try to get some sense out of him, I might be able to figure it out. But, stuck here? Not a chance."

He is angry and frustrated, and she doesn’t know how to help. That makes her anxious. When he had been grieving for the loss of his friend, it had been easier for Mary to console him.

"Are you saying that you don't think George is going to be able to help Sherlock?"

"Unlikely."

"Why?"

"I can't explain. This is…" He stops.

Then tries again, "Sherlock is…," but cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence.

Putting his face down between his hands, John just says quietly, "He needs help and I'm not there. I'm sorry, Mary. I just find all this very hard to deal with."

She sinks down on the sofa beside him and puts her arms around him. He responds, bringing her close, but she feels that he is holding something back.  _Oh, Sherlock, please don't do this to him._  It is then that she realises for sure that no matter what Mycroft tries to do in terms of pressuring her, she has to fight for John's side now- and that means patching up his relationship with Sherlock. Somehow. Being seen as the trigger for someone else's PTSD is a cruel twist of fate, and one which would weigh heavily. She thinks it just might upset him even more than his own run-in with the condition.

She is going to have to ring Lidiya later tonight to find out the details about what had happened at the Manor. She needs to know  _everything_ ; it might be her only hope of finding something that could be used to keep Mycroft at bay, and buy John and Sherlock the time they both desperately needed.

oOo

His nightmare starts as they always did now. Not on the hot sands of Afghanistan, but on the rain spattered stones outside of St Barts. He is standing there looking at the blood being diluted, like some watercolour wash. This time, the body isn't there. But he can still feel on his fingers the texture of the pale skin on the wrist where he had been seeking a pulse. He looks up at the roof, and thinks about the internal damage that would result from the impact. When he looks back down at the pavement, there is a body there now, face down- but he knows it isn't Sherlock's. When he turns it over, Moriarty's dark staring eyes look up at him, lifeless.

 _You bastard_. He is suddenly kicking the lifeless body, as hard as he can, feeling the breaking ribs give way under his assault. Like some broken rag doll, the body absorbs the blows.

It is the sound of automatic weapon fire in the distance that breaks his concentration. John looks down the street, to where he can see the Old Bailey dome, with the figure of blind justice on the top. Her sword and scales are glinting in the sunlight breaking through the shower clouds. Then the sound of a sniper's bullet ricochets off the wall in a zing of dust, and he ducks, instinct making him drop to the ground and roll to the left toward the bus shelter. When he looks back at the body on the pavement, it is now dressed in army desert camouflage, and the soldier is still alive. He is screaming in agony; John recognises the voice- it’s Sergeant Hislop, who'd been in charge of the foot patrol that had been caught in the enemy trap.

He knows what is going to happen, yet is powerless to stop it from happening. His training kicks in and he shouts "Cover me!" to the platoon members beside him and then goes forward, crouching down low, and turning over the wounded man. To his horror, it isn't Hislop this time. A pair of grey green eyes look up at him from a face that is too pale and unreal. There is a gaping wound in Sherlock's neck just below his ear; the bullet has sliced through the chin strap and the helmet had slipped off when he fell. As he jams the helmet back on, John realises that the blood isn't arterial, so there is a chance he can be saved.

"SHUT UP- yelling just tells that fucking sniper to try again." He has to shout to be heard over the firing from the British troopers. He fumbles the bandage into place, and applies firm pressure, then loops his arm around the Sherlock's shoulder and starts to drag him back to safety.

He can smell the blood, the dirt and the discharge from the weapons behind him.  _The scent of battle_ \- unmistakable, terrifying, yet exhilarating. All that is missing is what he knows is coming, and yet is powerless to stop.

There- the sound of a sniper's weapon is different from the flat bark of the SA80, the standard assault rifle used by the British. This is the sound of a high velocity round coming in his direction.

Then, there is the thump – the feel of the bullet hitting the elastic tab that joins the brassard at the top of his arm to his body armour. A few centimetres to the left or right, and the armour would have given him some protection. But the bullet finds the one weak spot between the two sections, tearing through the soft tissue of his left shoulder and then out his back into the hard ceramic plate of the back of the osprey vest, shattering his clavicle in the process. The arm that holds Sherlock stops working, just as his brain wakes up to the fact that he has been shot. The next eight seconds are lost to agony, before the man he is trying to rescue is hit by another bullet- this one right between his eyes. The helmet stops the bullet from passing through Sherlock's head to John's own vulnerable neck. As John collapses back, pinned where he is by the now dead body of his friend, his last conscious thought is that he had failed- utterly, completely- getting both himself and Sherlock killed.

His eyes snap open. For a moment, he has no idea where he was. Instead of the bright sunlight of Helmand, he is in the dark, and it is cold.

"John? It's all right. Just the nightmare."

Mary's voice grounds him and time shifts. Afghanistan was years ago. And it was Sergeant Hislop who had been there, not Sherlock.

How many more times is he going to have to relive this scene? He asks that question every time. After Sherlock's death, his face had replaced Hislop's- the bloodied face that stared lifelessly from the pavement outside Barts. After Sherlock's return, the nightmares had almost stopped- and when he did have one, it was his sergeant, restored to his rightful place. Now, though…now that he'd watched Sherlock take a knife to his own neck, the nightmare has resumed in its full technicolour glory. He looks at the tired eyes that stared back at him from the mirror, in the cruelly bright bathroom.  _What do I have to do to make this stop?_

oOo

"You must have been horrified to watch that happen." Ella lets her sympathy show. John Watson had asked for an appointment "as soon as possible." He wasn't the sort to cry wolf; in fact, she has been worried about him ever since his last visit, when he was still struggling with anger issues related to Sherlock's return. When an hour after he called one of her regular weekly session patients cancelled due to a bout of flu, she'd rung him back and offered him the slot.

Sitting across from her now, he looks grim faced, exhausted and more distressed than she has seen him in a long while. He had just recounted the traumatic story of what had happened at the gym, when Sherlock had said that if he didn't come back, then "John gets to be happy with Mary," and tried to cut his own throat. His friend had survived, but is now in some form of therapy.

"What did you say to him?" Ella is being delicate.

"There wasn't time to say anything; I just had to stop him from killing himself, this time for real."

"Which you clearly did." She gives him an encouraging smile, trying to get him to realise that he would get another chance to say what needed to be said.

He nods, but doesn't return the smile. "It gets worse."

She wonders how that was possible.

"I'm not allowed to see him, because they think  _I'm_  somehow responsible for his breakdown."

Ella tries to keep her shock from showing, as he tells her about the scene in the hospital, when Sherlock had woken up and had a full-blown panic at the sight of him, swearing that he couldn't be seen with him, or people would kill John, and for that reason, Sherlock could not be anywhere near him.

"And you haven't been allowed to see him since that moment?"

"No."

She watches him close his eyes for a moment, trying to keep his emotions under control.

"I thought…well, the crazy stuff that he said… it must have been the fever or the drugs talking, or maybe both." He stops and swallows, then lifts his head again. "The consensus of medical opinion now is that I've become some sort of  _trigger_  for a traumatic event, something he went through when he was away. But no one knows what that is. So, they want me to stay away."

"How does that make you feel?"

This time he has to look out of the bay window at the bare branches of the trees.

"Try to put it into words, John. You need to be honest with yourself."

He starts to say something, then stops before the words got out, looking down at his hands clasped in his lap. "I don't do this very well." He sounds frustrated.

"John, do you remember what we talked about when you came to see me after…well, after everyone believed that Sherlock had committed suicide? I asked you if there were things that you wished you had said to Sherlock. You didn't tell me, but have you told him, now that he's back? Or did you let your anger get in the way?"

It is provocation, but she feels he needs the push. Her approach is vindicated when he starts talking.

"I was  _so wrong_. I feel embarrassed, ashamed. I kept thinking about me,  _my_  feelings,  _my_  pain. How could  _he_  be so cruel to have done that to  _me_? I didn't think what it was like for him. I just assumed that he didn't give a damn. And then I hear that he wishes he hadn't come back, that he'd actually rather he'd died out there…so that I could be happy." His voice cracks a bit. "Well, how do you think that makes me feel?"

He draws a shaky breath. "And when I  _finally_  get it, when I begin to understand, that's when they say I can't be there for him. That I've become  _toxic_  to him."

"What does Mary say about all this?"

His face softens. "I swear, she's as broken up about this as I am. Maybe even worse. She's been so  _good_  about Sherlock…I don't know how to explain it." He came to a stop.

Ella knows that John was not one to talk about his emotions. But he needs to learn, for his own mental health and for the sake of his future relationships. She lets her eyes show sympathy, but is firm. "Try."

He unclasps his hands and spreads them out on his legs, looking down at them, as if he might find some form of inspiration there.

"Mary has every reason to be jealous- always has. Ever since she's known me, she's been aware of my friendship with Sherlock. Christ, when she first met me, I was a walking ghost, so lost in grief that I don't know how she saw anything worth talking to."

He shakes his head in amazement. "Then when the cause of all that misery shows up and does his resurrection act, she's on  _his_ side; tells me to just be thankful he's back. Most women wouldn't have been so generous." His mouth quirks, as he seems to remember something amusing, "One time, a date told me that she could cope with anything but competing with Sherlock Holmes."

Ella smiles. "Mary doesn't see it as competing."

He shakes his head, and the smile grows a little broader. "She's the only one who's really understood my friendship with Sherlock. She doesn't draw the wrong conclusion."

The psychiatrist knew that John had been very uncomfortable with the tabloid press coverage after the supposed suicide. He isn't gay, and he doesn't love Sherlock in an erotic or romantic way. She'd managed to get him to talk about that in the early days of bereavement counselling.

He continues, "Sherlock's no threat to her, and she knows it. They actually get on. I think there's…I don't know…some sort of mutual respect thing between them."

She decides it was time to broach the question. "The dreams are back now?"

He nods, and the smile vanishes.

"Are they different?"

He nods again. "Worse."

"How?"

"This time, I can't save Sherlock and we both get killed in the process. He gets shot again. That didn't happen to Hislop. He survived." His jaw tightens. "The dream's just so damned  _vivid_ now _._ "

"What happens when you wake up?"

"I had a panic attack in the loo last night. I went in there when I left Mary so she could get back to sleep.  _Damn it_! I haven't had one of those in…years. Five bloody years- ever since I started living in Baker Street, that symptom disappeared." He sounds angry.

"Is that what made you decide to call me today?"

He won’t answer for a moment, then shook his head. His hands have knotted into fists. He looks down at them, suspiciously, and then lets his gaze shift to the window.

She waits.

"No, I called because this morning I started limping again."

The look of defeat on his face as he turns toward her makes her almost flinch.


	5. Withdrawal

"It's  _disgusting_."

"Maybe, but it's what's keeping you out of hospital. Sip it slowly, or you know what will happen."

The only reply is a groan. The look on Sherlock's face is enough to tell Greg that he has another battle on his hands.

Not that he doesn't have some sympathy. It’s half past midnight, and Greg has lost count of the number of times that Sherlock has vomited since the DI had arrived at Hartswood this morning. The oral rehydration solution is a mix of salts and glucose designed to keep a patient's electrolytes in balance when faced with the sort of vomiting and diarrhoea that Sherlock is going through. But, the pharma companies were concerned about saving lives, not creating something palatable.

As he keeps one eye on Sherlock's cautious sipping, Greg tries to put the last fourteen hours into some perspective. He'd been in his car on his Monday morning commute to the Yard when the call came through. He couldn't see the number on his phone without his reading glasses, but the blue-tooth hands-free kit had let him answer the ringing tone.

"Hello?"

"Morning, Detective Inspector. This is George Hayter. I hope I'm not interrupting something?"

"Not at all- you're a welcome distraction from the rush hour traffic. I'm snarled up waiting to cross Oxford Circus. What's the news on the patient?"

The sigh had been audible on the microphone, even over the traffic noise. "On the one hand, Sherlock changed his mind after bolting out of here soon after he woke up yesterday. So, I suppose it's one victory that he's still here at the Manor. But, he's started withdrawal and it's been one hell of a night."

Greg had winced. The memories of his previous detox sessions with Sherlock came to mind. "Yeah, well, you have my sympathies. He can be rude at the best of times, and de-tox is the worst of times for him, so he will be hell on wheels for anyone within shouting distance."

There had been a pause, before the electronically amplified voice of George Hayter replied, "I wish that was the case now. In fact, he's not talking to anyone. He's locked himself in his room and managed to move a wardrobe to block the door off. He says he's going to do this on his own."

Greg had been trying to visualise what that meant, when someone behind him tooted their horn. He had glanced up to realise that the traffic lights had gone green. "Hang on a minute." He had concentrated on the traffic, accelerating into the box junction. Once safely across and moving down Regent Street, he had picked up the conversation again.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"You and me both. And the Doctors Watson and Cohen, too. The problem is, we've lost all the eyes in the room. Yesterday evening, he held his very own treasure hunt and removed all of the spyware in there. We've got an audio feed from a directional microphone out in the hall, and it tells us he's spent the whole night in the bathroom dealing with vomiting and diarrhoea. Given his kidney injury, I'm really worried about dehydration, but he won't respond to anything we say."

That meant it had been Greg’s turn to sigh. "Morphine- yeah. Got you. Most of what I've helped him through related to cocaine, where the physical symptoms are not so bad; it just messes with his head. The morphine withdrawals have happened while he's been in rehab."

"With good reason; they're pretty awful even when you're in reasonably good health and he's nowhere near that. The problem is that every attempt to get him to open the door, to engage with me or Doctor Cohen- well, he hasn't even bothered to reply. He's leaving us no choice but to pick the damn lock and bulldoze that wardrobe out of the way. That's going to provoke a fight- which is  _so_  not what I want to have to do with him; it will make it impossible for him to trust us again."

As he had driven out of Regent Street onto Piccadilly Circus, Greg had made a decision. "What's your post code?"

"RH2 8BZ. Does that mean you're planning on coming here?"

Greg could hear the hope in the former doctor's voice. He had taken advantage of the red traffic light at the turn onto Haymarket to punch the destination into his Satnav. "Yeah- give me a few minutes to pass the baton at work, and I'll head down your way. The case work I'm on now is all related to the  _Agrikoliades_  scam*; there's a lot of liaison stuff with Interpol and the International Maritime Organisation. My Sergeant can play diplomat for a while."

"Do you think you can talk Sherlock into letting you in?"

"I'm willing to try."

"I should warn you. De-tox from morphine is horrible- and it could take as long as a week before he's functional. Can you be away from work for that long?"

Greg had thought about it. "If necessary, I can take personal leave, but I can't believe that the bosses would want to undermine the credibility of my star witness for the prosecution. We've got to get him fit for the witness stand."

"How long will it take you to get here?"

"Once I get across the river, it should be easier, because I'll be going against the rush hour traffic. Count on it being about an hour and a half."

oOo

The half full plastic tumbler suddenly thrust into his hands brings him back to the present. Sherlock has been sitting on the white tiled floor of the bathroom, but he is on all fours now and heading for the toilet. A moment later what had taken him five minutes of careful sipping comes back up and the now familiar sound of retching fills the small room. Three heaves and it is all over. There is so little left in Sherlock's stomach that no bile comes up with the fluids.

Greg draws breath and slides along the edge of the bathtub, to be closer to Sherlock, who is now slumped against the wall, holding his abdomen. His eyes are closed, but he is making no effort to hide his misery.

"Maybe the ice chips will be easier." Greg says it loud enough for the microphone to pick up, in the hope that those listening would get the hint and deliver the frozen ORS to the door. His phone peeps for an incoming text.

**12.38am Will he take the antiemetic now?**

"Tell them to  _piss off_." Sherlock's response is half-whispered. When he opens his eyes to glare at Greg, they are wet. He wipes his hand under his nose- it has been running for hours- another side effect of withdrawal.

"Tell them yourself. Just speak louder and they'll hear."

He groans again. "Can't. Throat hurts too much. Bile's acidic and my oesophagus has had enough." He is clutching his abdomen. " _Everything's_  had enough. Just shoot me now. Please."

"Well, they want to know if you'll take the antiemetic pills now."

"Nooo." It comes out more like a wail than anything else. "They don't work on me, and it will just make me throw them back up." He's brought his knees up to his chest and is starting to rock.

"The heating pad's probably re-charged now. I'll get it." Sherlock's abdominal muscles were cramping viciously and the vomiting makes it even worse.

Back in the dimly lit bedroom, Greg unplugs the lead that re-charges the soft gel-filled pack, while eyeing the odd furniture arrangement. The heavy wooden wardrobe is still positioned across the door to the hall, but now pushed out just far enough to let one aging detective and his midriff bulge into the room. Getting that concession had taken almost a half hour of one-sided monologue spoken to a locked door. He'd been briefed downstairs by Hayter and Cohen, and chased away the two agents out of the hall, before sitting himself down on the floor with his back to the bedroom door. For twenty five minutes he had tried to convince Sherlock to let him in. In the end, the absurdity of what he was doing had given Greg a fit of giggles. As it turned out, that provoked the first reaction from the other side.

"What's so funny?"

The baritone that said this had been muffled by the wardrobe obstructing the door, but it was the first sign of life.

"I was just thinking of the last time I did this. I was fifteen and Carole had locked herself into her bedroom. She'd stolen my stash of cigarettes and was determined to try them, because I'd told her smoking was cool. I was terrified she'd set fire to the curtains or something. I knew that if I didn't stop her before our parents got home that I was going to be thrashed to hell and back again by my dad and grounded for a week by mum. I was officially a corrupting influence."

"I could  _really_  do with a cigarette right now. I don't suppose you've got any on you?"

"Aren't you supposed to have stopped smoking?"

"It seemed the lesser of many evils."

"So, you're trying to deal with nicotine and morphine withdrawal. You  _must_  be a masochist."

There had been no answer.

"If I can bring in a cigarette, will you let me in?"

"Why are you here, Lestrade? Have you come to arrest me again?"

Even through the door, Greg could hear the suspicion behind the questions.

"As I've been trying to tell you for the past half hour, you berk, it's because you shouldn't do this on your own. It's too damn risky. You know you can trust me to do what's needed to keep you out of Mycroft's clutches. I've been there, done that, got the scars to prove it."

There had been a groan from the other side of the door. "That was cocaine. This is worse."

"Yeah, which is all the more reason why you're going to pull that damned wardrobe aside and let me in."

"How do I know that you won't let the others in, and I'll end up shackled to some hospital bed?"

"Sherlock. It's  _me_. Have I ever ratted you out when it comes to drugs?"

"There's always a first time."

He had snorted. "I'm hardly going to do that; you know where all my skeletons are buried."

"What skeletons?"

There had been real confusion tinged with a tiny bit of curiosity in that question which made Greg smile. When his nerves were this frazzled, Sherlock tended to go literal minded- and skeletons were potential  _cases_. "Not real ones, Sherlock. Metaphorically speaking."

No reply.

He had been getting nowhere fast. Appeals to logic were being ignored. A couple of other avenues he'd tried were probably dismissed as  _sentiment,_  unworthy of a reply; even he had cringed when he'd trotted them out. And if he had a legitimate case, a nice juicy murder, say, there was no way he'd get Sherlock involved at the moment.

Greg suddenly had had an idea- not at all fair, but it stood a chance. He had taken out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it. He had then puffed hard to get it going, and leaning down, blew the smoke from his lungs under the tiny gap between the bottom of the door and the floor.  _Take that, you and your hypersensitive nose._

There had been a groan.

He had taken another drag and sent the smoke under the door. Another groan, and then a floorboard had creaked. The noise had grown into the sound of wood scraping against wood, a heavy weight being dragged aside. Then a baritone, "You're a conniving bastard. Get in here before I die of nicotine withdrawal- and there'd better be more than one cigarette left in the pack or I swear I will set fire to you in desperation."

He had heard the key turn in the lock. Then a moment later- "if there's anyone else following behind you, I'll squash you both with this wardrobe."

Greg had eased the door open as far as it would go before it clunked into the back of the wardrobe. The gap he had been asked to squeeze through was ridiculously small. He had smirked. "Sherlock, I suppose I should be flattered you think I am that slim, but really? Give me a break- pull it out a little more."

"No."

He had sighed and started to squash himself into the narrow space, inching along. About a foot away from the end of the wardrobe, he had gotten stuck- his belt buckle had caught on something on the back of the heavy piece of furniture. He couldn't see what it was because there was no way for him to look down properly; his shoulders, stomach and bum were squeezed between the wall and the wooden back of the wardrobe. That's when he had gotten the giggles again. "Sherlock, come on. Rescue me- this is just too weird."

There had been a blur of white topped with dark hair in his sight line, and then the figure had crouched down where he could no longer be seen. Lestrade had then felt a bony finger or two worming in from the side of his waist.

"Sherlock- what are you doing?" He had tried to stifle a giggle; truth be told, he was ticklish around the waist.

"Rescuing you. Although… on second thought, I should just get into your pocket while you are helpless and help myself to your cigarettes."

There had been something fumbling in his trouser pocket and Greg had tried not to laugh out loud at the absurdity of being pick-pocketed in this position. Then the crinkle of the plastic wrapper around the cigarette pack had told him that Sherlock's hunt had paid off.

"Unless you've got two sticks to rub together, Sherlock, you won't be able to smoke them. My lighter's in my back pocket, currently wedged against the wall."

There had been a sigh. Greg had felt a tug at the belt buckle and then he was free to continue inching forward. By the time he had managed to get the rest of the way out, Sherlock was across the room, with a cigarette in his mouth.

"Lighter. Now."

Greg had tossed it onto the bed where Sherlock was sitting cross legged, wrapped only in a sheet. He had noticed the shaking in the hand that grabbed the disposable lighter and lit the cigarette. Then Sherlock had taken the most almighty deep inhale of smoke that would have left normal mortals gasping. He had held it in for what seemed an impossible amount of time, as Greg crossed the room and stood by the window, inspecting the younger man.

The exhale had been almost as lovingly long, Sherlock keeping his eyes closed to enjoy every tiny bit of nicotine he could extract from the smoke before it left his lungs. Greg had waited.

"You drive a hard bargain, Lestrade; to think I sold my soul for the sake of five cigarettes."

"Four, because I want one now."

"You had yours outside."

"That was bait."

Sherlock had taken another series of deep drags.

Greg had to say it. "You look horrible."

"So would you."

Greg had gone into the bathroom and surveyed the damage. The room stank, so he had pulled the cord for the light, which switched on the automatic fan, then went over and grabbed the plastic beaker, filled it with water, and brought it back into the room. Without a word, he held it out to Sherlock.

"No point. It will just come back up." He had exhaled some more smoke. "The light is too bright in there, and the fan is like a buzz saw."

Greg had walked back, turned off the light and shut the bathroom door. The fan had kept going, obviously on a timer switch.

"Now a buzz saw, just muffled a bit."

"Yeah, well, live with it for a few minutes. Then I will be able to tolerate it long enough to clean it up a bit, given that we are both going to have to use it."

"Planning on staying then?"

Greg had nodded.

"Why?"

When he didn't answer, but just stood there looking at the younger man, Sherlock wouldn't meet his gaze. Then the bony shoulders under the sheet had shrugged. "Protecting your asset, I suppose. The case needs me as an expert witness."

Greg had snorted. "If you think that's why I'm really here, then your deductive skills aren't what they used to be."

"They were good enough to land you Tilbury and the  _Agrikoliades_. Clear up rate must have dipped while I was away." He took another deep drag of smoke into his lungs. As he let it out, he continued, "I thought your career had suffered enough on my behalf; think of them as restorative justice."

"You took these cases because of  _me?_  "Greg's incredulity was clear.

The shrug again. "In part. But don't let it go to your head. I need a bigger fix these days to keep my mind occupied." He blew a smoke ring- the perfect "O" drifted toward the bathroom, because the air currents were being drawn there by the exhaust fan.

A baritone roughened by the smoke had continued, "And it was two fingers to Mycroft; the brother who thinks that because I did what I did while I was away that I've somehow changed for the better..." Greg heard the sneer in the last four words of that sentence- and wondered if they had been said for the benefit of the ears that were listening. "…whatever that's supposed to mean. He was wrong, by the way."

"Did you do drugs while you were away?"

"Not of my own volition."

Greg had tried to figure out what that meant. The doctors had talked about something horrible happening in China. All Greg had seen was the evidence of the beatings in Serbia. Before he could ask anything more, Sherlock had closed off the discussion. "It wasn't necessary. And my brother is a patronising prat. Now excuse me." He had leapt off the bed and made a dash for the bathroom. As he started to close the door, he dropped the sheet outside before pulling it shut.

The next six hours had passed in much the same fashion: occasional moments of lucid conversation, punctuated by trips to the loo to be ill- from either end, sometimes at the same time. The bathtub and basin got their fair share when the toilet was otherwise occupied.

At first, Greg had given him his privacy. It was during the second trip that his phone peeped, and he glanced at the text.

**11.48 We can send in some fluids- water, something hot? He needs hydration GH**

Greg had gone back to the bathroom door and listened as the second round of retching started. He had switched the mobile to mute, and typed out

**11.49 just water- and cigarettes.**

oOo

"Sherlock, you're the chemist. Why does morphine do this to you?" There has been a lull in the cycle of visits, and Greg is determined to use it to good advantage.

"The better question is why it happens when I  _stop_  using. The brain chemistry is actually simpler if you think that most neurotypical people get nausea when they first take morphine. That's the fault of the chemoreceptor trigger zone at the base of the 4th ventricle of the brain - think of it as a built-in tox screen to detect substances that don't belong in the blood. Right next door to that little bit of your brain is the medullary vomiting centre, which controls the complex muscular sequence otherwise known as vomiting. When the CTZ detects a noxious chemical in the blood, a signal is sent to the VC and voila! vomiting ensues. It's the body's self-defence mechanism against being poisoned. Same reason why people on chemo for cancer often vomit after a session."

Greg is slightly agog. "You're telling me that the human brain knows morphine's not a good idea? So, why does yours tell you it's a bad idea when you  _stop_  taking the stuff?"

"My neurotransmitter cells aren't like yours." Sherlock waves in the direction of his head. "Wired differently. So, when the morphine changes the biochemistry of my pain, not only do I get used to it; my brain actually starts to function normally; dopamine reabsorption slows to the rate you would experience. Take it away and I guess my chemoreceptor trigger area just goes into hyper-drive, shouting  _feed me now_. This excites the VC and off I go on another trip to the toilet. The other side effects are consequential. Vomit often enough and the whole digestive system just decides to join in the party."

As the afternoon creeps on, the repeated trips start to take their toll. Sherlock is quieter. He doesn't question where the cigarettes or bottled water come from. He just smokes. At three fifteen, when Sherlock picks up the sheet outside the bathroom door, and returned to the bed, Greg can see him shivering.

"Why do you go in there naked? You must be freezing." He adds a soft blanket around Sherlock's shoulders.

"It's worse if the sheet gets soiled. Then I'll have nothing."

"We can get more stuff sent in, Sherlock. Just stay warm."

oOo

As the afternoon turns into evening, things heat up. Sherlock is now sweating; withdrawal is doing odd things to his thermostat control. Agitation is also appearing, and his attitude become more hostile towards Greg.

"Why are you  _still_  here?"

"To stop you bouncing off the walls." Greg is sitting in the armchair, watching the last vestiges of Sherlock's control starting to slip.

"Go away. You're being a nuisance."

Greg rolls his eyes, and then crosses his arms. "No. Not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."

" _Why_?"

"Because if I go, the others who are getting their knickers in a twist about your state of health are going to try to intervene. Just think of me as a safety net, Sherlock. I'm much better than the alternative."

"Then make yourself useful." This is snarled; Sherlock's anxiety levels are rising along with his discomfort. He's given up sitting, and is now pacing, like some caged animal. "Distract me. Tell me about all the cases I missed. What happened while I was away?"

Greg starts with the story of the Waters family. The first bank robbery a year ago was pretty straight forward, including the way their lawyers had gotten the charges dismissed. Then came the second and third times they'd managed to wiggle out of the charges, and his mounting frustration. Sherlock keeps yawning as he recounts the story. On the fourth yawn in two minutes, Greg gives up.

"Am I boring you? Or do you need to sleep? I'll shut up."

"No." This is barked. A hand emerged from the sheet and points at his head. "The yawning is not due to you or your pedestrian detective work. Symptom-autonomic neurology- parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems all screwed up, just ignore it." Rattled off like machine gun fire, with no punctuation or pauses to take a breath- the data delivery marks a downward deterioration in Sherlock's mood.

He turns the corner of his circuit and started back towards Greg, then suddenly cries out and grabs his calf muscle, then collapses in a heap. Greg is out of the chair in a moment, and reaching for the fallen man, but his hand is slapped away.

"Piss off. Just a cramp- and vestibular instability. Tick off a couple more boxes on the symptom checklist."

Greg's phone vibrates. He pulls it out.

**4.18pm More ice chips on the way. The cramps are another sign of dehydration. What's his temperature?**

"They want to know what your temperature is."

"Give me that." The hand comes up, palm up, seeking the phone.

Greg smirks. "No way, you'd just smash it. I  _know_  you." He types in

**4.19pm Too hot to handle. And pissing him off to take his temp will just make it worse.**

oOo

Greg hands the heating pad to the crumpled up form that was rocking in the dim light.

"I hate you."

Greg smirks, even though he knows Sherlock wouldn't be able to see it. He had asked for a couple of candles so he'd be able to keep an eye on Sherlock once the sun set. That had been seven hours ago, and he's already burned through a half dozen of the tea lights, set up on the shelf over the basin. "You hate everyone and everything right now, so I don't take it personally."

"You're an idiot. Everyone's an idiot."

Greg nods, "Yep- you, too, Sherlock. If you know this is what happens when you take morphine why do you do it?"

"Don't get me started. I haven't the energy."

Greg purses his lips, then decided it was worth it. "If I wait until you're through this, you won't tell me. After all these years, I kinda understand the cocaine thing, given the way your brain works. I don't condone it, and if I catch you doing it, I swear…" He leaves it unfinished.

No reaction from the heap in the corner.

"But, I just don't get  _morphine._  I always thought you hated opiates because they slow you down."

There is a groan. "It's times like these when I wish I had morphine, because then I wouldn't have to be sitting here listening to you rabbit on."

Greg thinks about it some more. "You said, that night just after you got back and I came to Baker Street, that Mycroft's doctor had actually given you a prescription. To deal with the pain, you said, and showed me your souvenirs from Serbia. So, was this the same- you just dealing with the pain of the fight?"

There is something muttered under the sheet, but Greg can’t hear it.

"If so, why didn't you just get some pain killers? Why the big disappearing act?"

In the next second, Sherlock is suddenly on his feet and looming over Greg, who shrinks back, startled into a defensive reaction. The younger man's face is contorted with rage as he shouts "You have no idea what I have to live with! You never have and you  _never_  will. It's the same with all of you- you just tell me what I should do and what I shouldn't do. Well, I'm  _fed up_  with being judged by you!" He storms out of the bathroom, leaving a startled Greg behind.

By the time Lestrade has recovered enough to follow, Sherlock is already rummaging around in the dark, looting the chest of drawers. He has a pair of boxers on and socks, then yanks a vest over his head. His anger is telegraphed in every movement.

"Going somewhere?" Greg keeps it neutral, not sarcastic. He's brought one of the candles out with him and put it down on the bedside table.

"Yes." This is hissed through clenched teeth. "I can't stand the stupidity in the vicinity." He stalks over to the heavy wardrobe and threw it open, dragging out a pair of dark trousers, which he pulls on.

"Then educate me. What do you really want to do?"

"Leave. And be left alone."

"Would it help if I left you here, so you could be on your own?"

"No."

"Why? What can you do out there that you can't do here?"

By now Sherlock has pulled on a thick plain sweatshirt over a long sleeved shirt. Greg keeps wondering about the bandages he seemed to be ignoring. Is Sherlock so angry, so pumped up with adrenaline that he wasn't even feeling the pain?

"Out there I can find something that will make all this stop."

"All of what stop?"

"You, them, the noise, the pain-  _everything."_

Greg does not like the direction in which that comment sent him; that same level of paranoia and utter frustration had once taken Sherlock to a rooftop in south London and a lethal overdose.

"Sherlock." He puts all the warning tone he can in the one word.

It is enough to make the man turn sharply to look at him, from the shoe laces he's just started to tie. "What?" Even in the light of just the single candle, Greg can see his distress.

"What you're feeling right now is going to follow you out of this room. Wherever you go, it's going to be the same."

"Unless I find a way to stop it." He returns to the task and finishes the second shoe.

"Then you're back to square one…or worse."

"Worse? What could  _possibly_  be worse than this?" He growls this as he stands up.

"I can think of something worse- as can everyone except Molly and your brother."

For a moment, Sherlock seems confused. Then the penny drops. "I wasn't…it wasn't  _real_ , Lestrade!"

"We didn't know that."

Sherlock's shoulders slump and he lets out a shaky breath. He turns away from Greg, walking a few hesitant steps toward the mullioned windows. Neither of them had thought to pull the curtains when the sun had set, so there is nothing between him and the total darkness of the rural night. In a room lit by only one candle, Greg's eyes are well enough adapted to be able to see that Sherlock's anger seemed gone, blown out.

Sherlock puts his forehead against the cold glass, and says very softly, "The more you all keep holding that against me, the less likely I am to want to return."

"You  _are_  back, Sherlock, and we want you to sort yourself out."

"Am I, really? Could have fooled me."

Greg is trying to figure out what to say to that when he hears the front door of the big house next door close with a thump, then the sound of gravel crunching as someone walks outside. The bedroom windows are just above and to the right of the door.

The motion sensor of the porch security light must have been triggered by the person, because there is a blinding flash as it clicks on, illuminating the driveway- and the bedroom.

Sherlock screams, "Bù! Bùyào zài!"**

Greg is stunned, as Sherlock drops to the floor, buries his head in his arms and then crawls into the darkest corner of the room.

Greg squats down a few feet away. "Sherlock?" He says it very softly. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

"Lí wǒ yuǎn diǎn! Nǐ shì bùshì zhēnshí de"!***

This is shouted, as Sherlock flings himself around in terror to face Greg. The pupils in the grey green eyes are blown wide, and when he looks in Greg's direction, it is without any recognition at all, as if he is seeing right through him.

"Wǒ shì yīgè sǐrén."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: * Agrikoliades is the name of the ship involved in the Cunningham's scam, covered in Devonshire Squires.  
> ** "No! Not again!"  
> ***Get away from me! You're not real!"  
> ****I am a dead man."


	6. Another Therapist?

"He's never done this before; disassociation on this scale is new." Esther keeps her tone calm, neutral, but is realistic enough to know that the woman on the other side of the kitchen table will be picking up on her distress anyway.

George Hayter nods. "He's not said anything for the last three days apart from repeating the statement in Chinese that he is a dead man. He says it when he is awake, whether anyone is with him or when he's on his own. Otherwise, he's totally unresponsive- no reaction to pain stimuli, no eye contact, no acknowledgement of another's presence in the room."

Esther continues the briefing. "In the past, in rehab he's dropped into voluntary mutism and regressed into more obvious ASD behaviours like stimming, but he's not been like this. It's near catatonia; he's not exercising any control over his bowel or bladder, with no realisation of what is happening."

The big man next to her purses his lips and shrugs. "In one way, it's been a blessing- he hasn't fought back at all or resisted treatment, so we could get him on an IV, anti-emetics and a gastric tube, getting him through the last stages of drug withdrawal. All the physical stuff has happened, without any of the psychological issues- his mind just isn't engaging with what's happening with his body- which is weird. I've never known anything like this- how can … how is it even possible?" George runs out of words and had to think about it, "I didn't think anyone could consciously ignore what withdrawal has to be doing to his brain chemistry."

Esther picks up that point. "I agree. He should be reacting the way he's reacted before- he's been through opiate detox three times in rehab, lots more for cocaine relapse. There's usually lots of fireworks, as he works through the anger, anxiety and frustration. I wonder if it has something to do with the trauma- is he stuck in some sort of permanent flashback? There is almost no clinical research about ASD patients and PTSD. I have no idea if this is something that is unique to Sherlock, or just something that happens to people on the Spectrum but hasn't been noted in any of the literature."

George chips in again. "His reactions aren't like a flashback- no stress reactions, no panic attacks or avoidance- in fact, the opposite of how PTSD normally presents. It's only in very extreme cases that dissociation takes place." He leans back in his chair and gives a stretch of his arms and shoulders. It has been a long three days and nights; the two nurses and he have been taking it in turns to stay with Sherlock. After the second night, Lestrade had gone home, clearly shocked by the turn of events, but unable to get through to him any better than any of the others.

After George has another sip of black coffee, he continues, "The files I sent you the day before yesterday don't include anything like this. I don't want to rush you into a false diagnosis, but whatever initial thoughts you might have had based on the documentation, you need to know what he's doing right now, because it's different from what's come before. That's why I asked you to come this morning."

He and Esther look expectantly across the table at the third person sitting with them. The woman they are addressing is just a little under medium height, in her late forties and was…well, the only word that Esther can come up with is "interesting". Diane Goodliffe is a surprise that George had sprung on her the night before Sherlock had arrived from hospital.

Over a glass of red wine in his little sitting room, he'd broached the idea. "Doctor Cohen- no disrespect intended, but I hope you will be willing to consider someone new; a fresh approach that puts Sherlock in the driving seat. There is someone I want you to meet. If you think she passes muster, I'd like to give her a try with him."

He had explained that Diane Goodliffe had an MA in psychotherapy and healing, adding a string of diplomas and qualifications ranging from the more traditional neurolinguistic programming all the way through to cognitive behaviour therapy in its more trendy "mindfulness" versions. Unusually, she is also a holistic practitioner who is not afraid of using meditation techniques or alternative medicines- and she is a practicing Buddhist.

Esther had been reluctant at first, and had tried to explain why. "He's had an endless run of 'new' faces. Every time he goes into rehab, they seem to want to try the latest flavour of the month on him. He's endured CBT, psychodynamic experiential stuff, bog standard Jungian and Adlerian psychoanalysis, rational emotive behavioural therapy. In every case, he just learns what is needed to get out, parrots it back at them and then leaves, going straight back to the old ways of living as soon as he can. Another  _fresh start_  is just not going to appeal."

George had then explained that he knew Diane Goodliffe from the Tyrwhitt centre, where she had been asked to provide training to the staff in a particular therapy called EMDR, which was the latest accreditation that Diane had added to her already impressive list. Given the PTSD issues with Sherlock, he wanted Esther to at least meet with the woman before forming a view. Her background history had been vetted by Mycroft as well before he'd been allowed to tell her anything about the illustrious patient's identity. Because on paper Goodliffe had passed muster, then Esther was minded to accept- Mycroft had grown very picky over the years about who he would accept as his brother's carers. When John Watson appeared on the scene, the need had declined. But, given what had happened since Sherlock's return, Esther is trying to be open-minded about the therapist who was now in the Hartswood Manor kitchen.

Diane has dark short hair, with just a hint of red in it, which makes Esther wonder if it is her original colour, or maybe a flirtation with henna. The glasses framing her brown eyes are metal, not the more obtrusive boxy styles that seem to grip younger fashion-conscious these days. There is less to distract you; her gaze is warm, with just a hint of humour there, as if she is aware of how awkward this meeting could be for the older psychiatrist. Esther also realises that Diane is giving her the same level of scrutiny as she is giving her.

"You're worried about him." Diane's carefully modulated alto makes Esther smile, involuntarily. It is a rich tool, one that might connect with Sherlock on a subconscious level; his own baritone is a fine-tuned weapon, but this woman clearly uses hers to attract and engage her patients. It is a voice that one naturally trusted, and Esther feels a pang of professional jealousy for a moment.

She covers it by nodding. "Yes, I am, but that's nothing new. I've been worried about Sherlock since before I even met him."

That brings another smile. "It is unusual to have such a long history with a patient- twenty six years is a long time, a real continuity of care that a lot of patients never get. You must be worried about someone else getting involved."

Esther nods. "Don't get me wrong- I'm just one of many who have tried to help him, the only difference really is that I haven't given up on him, like so many others. I've seen a lot of different things tried over the years; most have not worked. He's unique. If you really can make a difference, then I am all for a fresh perspective."

The brown eyes looking at her have a twinkle of mischief in them. "But, you're still worried. Tell me why."

Esther gives a guilty smirk.  _Caught_. "Yeah, well- I'm not sure you really understand what you're letting yourself in for. You've not treated anyone on the Spectrum before. They are different, challenging in ways that your training won't have prepared you for. A lot of what you've learned will need to be turned on its head. And of all the hundreds of ASD patients I have worked with in my professional career, none is as challenging as Sherlock."

Diane leans forward, her interest piqued. "Tell me why?"

There it is- the transatlantic twang still present. Goodliffe was American born, but Hayter told Esther not to hold that against her. She'd spent more than half her life in the UK, brought here from her native New York as a wife to a corporate lawyer with an American law firm in the City of London. When he'd gone back to Wall Street, she'd stayed behind with their seventeen year old daughter, content to recognise that the marriage was over, but accepting her adopted homeland as a fair trade.

It is time for Esther to put her cards on the table, and find out whether this therapist is made of the right stuff. "Sherlock Holmes is the smartest man you will ever have met, or hope to meet. He's also rude, socially inept, and he will go out of his way to be offensive to you, because he doesn't think he has to change. He will object to the very idea of you."

Diane doesn't appear fazed by this litany.

So, Esther continues, "Sherlock Holmes is more knowledgeable about his own condition and treatment approaches than any patient has a right to be; he will make you question everything about yourself- your skills, your ability, your ideas about what makes you tick as a person. But, he's just as capable of acting like a three year old having a tantrum as he is arguing with you about the selective effects of SSRI's on dopamine re-absorption rates at the level of neurotransmitter receptors. He's a first class biochemist. He is hard as hell to treat because he will argue with you on points of technical detail, as if he were a fellow clinician. And he won't hesitate to use that knowledge against you, if he decides he doesn't like you. I've seen seasoned therapists reduced to tears by his brutal exposures. If you are not afraid of treating him, then you should be."

Undaunted, Goodliffe says calmly, "I've read the files. And noted how most psychiatrists end their reports by saying he is untreatable, unengaged and a  _bad_  patient. I found your comment in 1996 where you said that he'd spent an entire summer going through every conceivable diagnosis…" here she stopped to look down at the notepad so she could read it, "… learning the symptoms and then displaying them so the people treating him would feel their label was justified- and then telling them they were idiots."

George looks a little startled at that, but Esther laughs. "Yep- I finally confronted him about it, and he just laughed at me. Said, 'If my brother wants to waste his money trying to label me, then I'll have fun showing him what I think about the idea'."

"The fraternal relationship seems to be a recurring source of stress."

"Family relationships are always fraught for someone on the Spectrum; it's one of the defining characteristics. Add to that the early death of his mother, the only person with whom Sherlock had formed a deep attachment, and a father who rejected him- he's probably had one of the worst childhood experiences of any of my patients. His older brother found himself in the role of care-taker and responsible adult at a time when he was still a minor. Even with the best will in the world, it was going to be hard work- for both of them."

Diane nods and then consults the note pad she had brought with her. "There is something you both need to understand about the way I work. It might be a deal breaker. Even if Sherlock does accept the therapeutic relationship with me, it's not enough."

Now it’s Esther's turn to look confused. "What are you suggesting?"

Diane glances over to Hayter, bringing him into the discussion. "George may have told you that my approach at the Tyrwhitt Centre is based on Group Therapy sessions and helping the other clinicians there apply some new treatment therapies. But, that's not how I work with my private patients. They're different. I only take them on if their support network is willing to engage in therapy as well."

George looks intrigued. "How does that work?"

Diane takes a sip from the glass of water that is on the table beside her notepad. "Helping the patient learn to help themselves is not enough. In many cases, the person is in a family situation or has relationships with people who are not supporting the healing process. I'm not saying that they don't think they are- that's actually part of the problem. Old established routines – things like laying down the rules, enforcing compliance, trying to get their loved one to change behaviours- all well-intentioned stuff, but actually toxic to the patient's ability to change. So, in parallel with my work with the patient, I also require the family members to attend sessions with me- without the patient being there. Those are not about him; they are about the behaviours that each of them has to stop doing, and the new ways of thinking they have to adopt, if the patient is going to get better."

She picks up the pen and looks expectantly at the two of them. "So, apart from the brother and the…" Diane looked at her notes, "… Detective Inspector Lestrade who left yesterday, with whom else does he have a significant relationship?"

Esther raises her eyebrows. "That rather depends. If you ask him, no one. He's happy to call himself a sociopath. But, there are others who are- or were- the people in his world."

"Were?"

"He's been away….as you know."

Diane looks down at her notebook and says quietly, "I don't believe everything I read in the newspapers."

"No, my guess is that you know more than the bare bones by now, as soon as George was able to tell you who his patient was."

"What I can… _deduce_  …from the public record is that he's been back now about seven weeks, and that whatever he got up to when he was away has triggered this breakdown. Does this mean that the three people who were mentioned at the public enquiry in the summer as the reason why he faked his suicide, that those relationships haven't been re-established?"

George responds before Esther can. "Lestrade- yes; that's why he was here, and Sherlock's been willing to have his help on detox before. Mrs Hudson, his housekeeper, has been looking after him at the flat, and things seem okay there. But John Watson? The relationship they have now is very different from what it was. In fact, on several recent occasions, he's been a trigger for the flashbacks. We don't know why."

"The blogger. They were living together in the same flat, working together."

"And now they're not. John Watson has a fiancé he's due to marry in the spring, a new home, a new job, and hasn't been working with Sherlock since that business with the Guy Fawkes bomb, just after he got back."

Diane makes a note on the pad. "From the file I can see that there are no parents alive, nor close relatives, apart from the brother. He'd have to participate in the therapy, too."

Esther has a momentary image of Mycroft being in a group therapy session, and starts to laugh. "That's…um, unlikely in the extreme."

"Why?"

"I suspect you'll find out soon enough. If Sherlock gives any sign of being willing to work with you as a therapist, you'll probably be summoned into the presence." Esther thought about stripping out some of the loaded language, but found it hard.  _Better you know just what you're up against; I had to learn it the hard way._ "I've known Mycroft longer than I've known Sherlock. And it may be harder to think of the elder Holmes getting involved in any therapy than it is the younger brother."

Diane makes a note on the pad, then puts the pen down. She looks across the table at them both with an encouraging smile. "We'll see. One step at a time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: this chapter is dedicated to my good friend, SailOnSilverGirl, who has taught me the value of a well-written OC.


	7. Spying

Mary slides into the booth at the coffee shop and fishes in her handbag for the phone. She had moved it from its usual hiding place before coming out. She is on her lunch break from the surgery, and has managed to sneak out alone by telling John she is meeting a friend to discuss possible wedding venues. Two swipes and the number comes up- the only pre-programmed number listed- another swipe, then up to her ear and the call connects.

Two rings and then a familiar voice answers "Hello… Mary." The Eastern European accent does not hide either the hesitation or the slightly ironic tone about her name.

"Tell me  _everything_." Mary breathes in, and prepares to listen. "Everything we couldn't say when big brother was listening in."

Before today, they'd been forced to use Lydia's proper phone to communicate, but because they both knew that someone would be listening in, they'd confined themselves to the basics, things that would be expected to be said. That's when Mary had first learned about Sherlock's meltdown- even before John had been updated by Hayter.

"It was my fault, and I feel so bad about it." Lydia had explained that she hadn't been able to sleep, so she'd decided to get some fresh air before turning in late on Monday night.

"I didn't know that there was a security light out the front door, but when it went off, the detective inspector said he just went ballistic- straight into a flashback. By the time the policeman got the wardrobe pushed aside so we could get in, Sherlock was in a total state of panic. Hayter and I had to hold him down to stop him from hurting himself while Ingrid injected the lorazepam. After that, he was unconscious and we just went into hospital routine; we had to clean him up and get him into a gown and back into bed properly, then the IV and gastric tube. He didn't say a word anyone could understand before collapsing and he's still not talking."

"Oh, dear. We're going to need to get around this communication problem."

"I'm working on it."

Two days later, the coded message in her comment to Lydia worked; her old friend figured out a way around Mycroft's listening into everything. By first class letter, the Czech tipped her off about the stable hand who worked at Hartswood Manor farm. Celia Brown, eighteen years old and she came in four days a week to muck out stalls. When Lydia was outside smoking a cigarette, she'd got to talking with the young girl, who was clearly horse-mad and working to save up enough to buy her own. For a sum of money, Celia got her to post the letter, and included in it the girl's address in Reigate where another phone could be sent. It had taken another couple of days, but the teenager finally brought it to the nurse.

Lydia's letter explained that Celia had been hired the previous summer by the farm manager, who lived in one of the five houses that made up the compound once known as Harstwood Manor Farm. Apart from the stable block, all the farm buildings had been converted into homes and sold off. The six stalls and yard were owned by the investment banker and his family of four children, three of whom owned horses.

Mary didn't give a damn about any of that. What she cared about was that one of the twenty or so people living in the vicinity of Hartswood was willing to take a bribe to buy a phone in her own name and then hand it over to Lydia. Mycroft would be listening in to the nurse's own phone because George had given him the number- and everyone else's at the Manor house proper- but he'd be breaking the law to put Celia's phone on that list. And why would he? He wouldn't suspect that Mary is using the phone to keep in touch with what was going on. After all, the phone's user is registered at a home address on the north east side of Reigate. It is too cheap a handset to be GPS-enabled.

Of course, Lydia had agreed to the idea of being her spy in the camp. They went back a long way- too long, if truth be told. Mary had acquired assets all around the world when she was working, but Lydia is actually a clean skin- someone no security service had any idea about. So she would pass Mycroft's vetting process; the elder Holmes would not know that their relationship was anything other than what he'd been told. Not until he dug  _much_  deeper into Mary's past would he find the real truth, something he had said he isn't minded to do, unless she stops being useful.

So, she is trying her best to be useful- to herself, as much as to Mycroft Holmes.

When they had been little girls together, Lydia and the person whose name was certainly not Mary had sworn to stay in touch. Both had falsified papers to they could train as nurses in the UK when they had left the Czech Republic before it became a member of the EU; both then worked overseas, but in different parts of the world. The difference was that Mary used her nursing skills as a cover; Lydia is the real thing.

So, when George had given her the opportunity to recruit someone, Mary didn't have to think twice. She knows that Lydia is not only competent, but more important, she is loyal. And she was available, too. While still up in London, Mary had explained to Lydia that she needed her to act the part of a casual friend- someone she had met while training five years ago. Lydia is the only one still left alive who really knew her original identity- but even she had never been told by Mary who her real employers were. To the Czech nurse, it was just a case of her friend wanting to make a fresh start, so her old identity needed to be kept a secret.

Now, thanks to Celia's phone, they can revert to old patterns of friendship. And Lydia is finally able to be more detailed in what she says.

"Well, the last three days he's been totally different. No resistance at all to any treatment. He just ignores everything."

"Hayter talked to John this morning, so I am getting a bit of information second-hand. Catatonic?"

The Czech woman hums, "Not quite. It's weird. You think he is, and then in the middle of something, suddenly out pops that Chinese phrase."

"Always the same?"

" _Ano, přesně tak_." Lydia reverted to Czech. " _Budu hrát nahrávku_.*"

The dark-haired nurse had recorded the phrase on her own phone, when she was in Sherlock's room alone with him, and plays it now. Mary recognises it was the same northern accented Chinese that he had used at the gym. "I am a dead man."  _God knows, what does that actually mean?_

"Has it been translated for Hayter and Cohen?"

"Yes, the two government men here guarding the patient told them yesterday, and Colonel Hayter told us- and said that we should ignore it."

Mary needs to know why Sherlock is saying this, because it might influence when they'd let John back in to see Sherlock. Since Sunday night her fiancé has been going from bad to worse. His leg is now giving him real grief. That is new, and worrying. She'd been told the story of his psychosomatic injury and how Sherlock had cured it within a night of moving into Baker Street. He'd never mentioned it before, which only underscores what she is starting to realise more every day- that if Sherlock does not improve soon, John is going to get a whole lot worse. She loves him too much to see him suffer.

When John learned about what happened with Lestrade and Sherlock and how it ended, he'd gone very quiet. By Wednesday, he was starting to argue on the phone with both Doctor Cohen and George Hayter.

She'd overheard some of the conversations; couldn't really miss them, given that John was talking rather firmly to one or the other of them on the phone while in the living room before dinner.

"Esther, he's done this before. Don't you remember? At the clinic, he had a spectacular meltdown and hurt that nurse who tried to touch him, and then he smashed the mirror. He was so depressed afterwards that no one could reach him." **

Mary couldn't hear what Doctor Cohen was saying, but John had not been willing to let the topic go.

"No, I realise this is probably different, but the point was, I got through to him that day. You were there; you can't deny it. Let me back in, please. I can reach him."

The answer had been clearly no.

"So, who the  _hell_  is this new therapist and why aren't  _you_  in charge?"

Whatever Doctor Cohen had said, it had not satisfied John, who rolled his eyes. "Oh, he's going to just love that…some bloody holistic healer spouting Buddhist nonsense at him."

There had been a long silence, as the psychiatrist must have been given John more background.

"Well, good luck with that. When Sherlock has eaten her for breakfast and spat out the bones, maybe you can point out to George  _bloody_  Hayter that I've actually got a track record of getting through to Sherlock." He had ended the call, clearly in a mood. But he wouldn't talk about it with Mary that night.

She had watched him limp into the kitchen to fix a cup of tea. The PTSD was back with a vengeance. It was driving her crazy, because he wouldn't talk about it. When he had been upset by nightmares in the past, before Sherlock's return, he'd been very clear with her.

"The best thing for you to do is nothing. Say nothing, do nothing. Ignore it, completely. The more people fuss, the worse it gets for me. I just have to work it through on my own. Please, Mary- I want you to promise me that you will respect that request."

He might have thought she was asleep when he slipped into the bathroom after the nightmare, but she'd heard his distress. It had been one of the hardest things for her to do- to respect his wishes to be left alone. But, he'd looked so wrecked the next morning that she had to bring it up. When he had finally confessed it was a panic attack, she could hardly forgive herself that she had not gone into the loo to see what was going on.

"You were so quiet." She didn't try to hide her emotion. "Oh, John, if only I'd known!"

He had been subdued and looked exhausted. "I got the hang of keeping it quiet when I was first diagnosed; didn't want others to know about it. It's embarrassing."

She knew that he absolutely hated talking about it, but had tried to convince him that a session with Ella would help. She'd pushed and cajoled without much effect, until she finally ended up hands on hips in the surgery on Tuesday morning, having one of their first proper arguments.

John had been adamant. "You don't get it. If Mycroft learns I'm back at therapy, there's no way in hell he will let me near Sherlock."

"John Watson, how can you expect the others to let you back in to help Sherlock, if you won't even get help yourself? They  _know_  you have problems, but that hasn't stopped you before. And who is this "them" you're talking about?

"Mycroft. Esther. Lestrade, and now Hayter, too. They see me as part of the problem now, not the solution."

"Well, if you aren't willing to take proper care of yourself, then I might agree with them. If you want to be there for Sherlock, then get this seen to, John. It's important."

John had taken Tuesday afternoon off to go see his therapist. When she got home, he was sitting on the sofa just thinking. Wouldn't say much. When they went to bed that night, his limp was noticeable, as he went into the bathroom.

"Is it muscular? Can I massage it or something to try to loosen it up?"

"No." This had been snapped with an emphasis that almost made her recoil from its ferocity. He had scrubbed his face in the water he'd run in the bathroom sink.

When he had come to bed, he had calmed down enough to be apologetic, "I'm sorry, Mary. Please, don't let this get to you. I've just never liked any kind of physical therapy related to the blasted leg, because I know it's all in my bloody head. I've just got to figure a way through this."

 _You and me both, John._  She was only too aware that Mycroft's threat to investigate her was being held back only as long as she could help sort things out between the two men.

oOo

"Chicken pox- _again_."

Mary watches his eyes roll.

"I'm going to  _kill_  Mrs Benson."

She laughs. "Yep- right, cause of death on the certificate is going to be epidemic caused by Jimmy's fourth birthday party."

Once the door is closed behind her leaving John with the fourth toddler in two weeks to succumb, Mary feels the vibration again between her thighs, but keeps her face absolutely still as she heads off to the bathroom. Once in and the door locked, she undoes her uniform trousers and pulls the surgical tape off. Mary had needed to keep the secret phone handy, but in a place where John wouldn't find it.  _Old habits die hard._  The inside of her thigh was perfect- she'd feel the vibrations, and John is too much of a gentleman to rip her clothes off. A hug, even a squeeze of her bum is more his style. In any case, if he started to get amorous- unlikely in his current mood- she could always nip to the loo and remove the incriminating evidence.

She looks at the screen. One missed call, and then a text.

**12.16 Call me! Developments!**

Two swipes, two rings later, Lidiya answers.

"Got to make this fast,  _miláček._ " She sounds like she had been running. "I'm going to be missed; and a cigarette break only takes ten minutes."

"Go on then."

"He's awake. The new therapist- Diane Goodliffe- she made us take all the kit off, get him back into his pyjamas and stop the drugs. 'Let him wake up again', she says, and we all think she's bonkers- I mean he's catatonic, right?"

"And?" Mary prompts. "You're the one in a hurry, Lidi; get on with it."

There is a laugh on the other end. "It's  _déjà vu_ \- he wakes up, gets dressed and then comes downstairs, stops at the kitchen door and says he's going for a walk. Then, as he's going out the door, he says he'll be back."

" _And_?"

Lidiya giggles. "He did come back. Was gone for about a half hour, and then strolls back in, just like nothing had happened at all. We were all around the kitchen table trying to figure out what to do if he bolted; even the security boys, they were watching the tracker on the screen. Then he marches in, looked at us all, and said to the therapist, 'You, I want to talk to you.'" Lidiya giggles again. "he's quite imperious when he isn't puking his guts up over a toilet. Then he demanded she get her coat and come outside with him. It was all…bizarre."

 _Smart one, Sherlock._ Outside, no one would be able to listen into their conversation. Mary wonders how it went. "And? Then what  _happened_?" This time she makes her impatience clear.

"They came back about ninety minutes later. He goes upstairs without saying a word, and Goodliffe disappears next door, with Hayter and Cohen in tow. That was about a half hour ago. They're still in there now. And before you say 'again' again, no, I have no idea what they are talking about, or even if it's good news or bad."

Mary groans in frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:* "Yes, exactly." " I'll play the recording." ** See Sidelined, Chapters 16-18 and 20


	8. Debrief

"Well, it was…interesting. And informative. He's …thinking about it."

Esther leans forward, sitting on the edge of the wing backed chair. Diane Goodliffe is sitting back in her twin version of the chair, feet extended toward the fire. The therapist is still wearing her coat, and Esther doesn't blame her- it’s a bitterly cold late afternoon in December.

George is hovering by the door to his galley kitchen. "Kettle's on. While it boils, just let me say now how right you were. Letting him get up on his own worked a treat this time. How did you know that the dissociation was over?"

Goodliffe throws him a smile. "I didn't  _know._  Not for sure anyway. But, the more it felt like the opiate withdrawals he'd been through the before, the more likely it was that he'd just kick back and let others deal with it; I don't blame him in the slightest for wanting to avoid it. I think the dissociation wasn't exactly psychotic. More like an extreme avoidance coping strategy. Just check out of reality when it gets too painful."

Esther is nodding. "For someone who'd never even met him, that's pretty astute."

The younger woman pulls a face. "Luck, Esther. It's about time he had some luck come his way for once." She shivers, involuntarily.

The grey haired psychiatrist gives her a sympathetic smile, and then gets up to put another split log onto the fire. "You're lucky the sun sets so early; at least he didn't keep you out there until frostbite set in. While you thaw out, tell me what happened. I want to know  _everything, e_ verything that happened once you went out the door."

The younger woman gives a thoughtful smile, and looks up in gratitude as George comes back into the little sitting room with its inglenook fireplace. He is carrying a tray with three cups of tea.

"Right, green tea for you; ordinary Earl Grey for us."

"Thank you." Diane wraps her hands around the cup, trying to get them warm. The gloves she'd been wearing obviously hadn't been enough to protect her hands.

"When I got out the door after putting all the gear on, he was waiting by the side of the house, his back turned to me. He wouldn't look at me, and as I came closer, he set off and I had to follow." She takes a sip, swallowed and let out an unconscious "ah" of pleasure.

"He's got a big stride, and made no concessions to me, so I had to almost run to keep up with him. He's certainly shrugged off the physical side-effects of withdrawal pretty fast."

"Where'd you go?" George is sitting on the fender seat now, nearer to Esther, but turns so he can see the therapist while he sips from his own mug.

"Straight through the lower garden and into the west field. He must have found the farm track when he was out earlier, so he followed it and bypassed the two houses to the south, on the other side of the trees and the hedge. He waited for me to catch up when he got to the pipe line excavations- God, what a mess, George, I had no idea that it was scarring the land so much."*

He shakes his head. "Most people don't, because it's going cross country. I guess the people living in Betchworth will be happy to get gas at last. It won't be completed until next year in the autumn; I suppose it will grass over pretty quickly after that."

"Anyway, we slithered across the mud and then into Pond Field Plantation. He still hadn't said a word, and walked in front of me, sometimes as much as twenty or thirty feet ahead. On the other side of the wood, I thought he was going towards Birchett Copse, but he turned off before the track bridge. Then he left the track and went down a little path to the river. There was a bench. I didn't know there was a bench there; hell, I never even knew about the path, and I've lived in this area all my life."

Esther gives George a look that must have shown that she was a little lost.

"The River Mole. It's a tributary of the Thames, via the Ember. It's about fifteen minutes' walk southwest from the Manor."

She thinks about it, remembering the car journey and the ridge of high ground between London and Reigate. "The Thames? How does it get over the North Downs?"

Diane laughs. " _He_  knows the answer. As soon as I sat down on the bench, he said that it's unexpected- the Mole flows  _north_  when everyone thinks it's going to go south to the sea. Sherlock said it disappears under the North Downs, in a series of holes at Box Hill, and reappears on the other side. I told him that I knew that, because I'm from the area. When I was a little girl my father used to say it was the moles that dug the holes, and that's how it got its name.

"Sherlock informed me rather sternly that was rubbish, and that fathers shouldn't lie to their children. And then I got the lecture. He told me that in medieval times it was called Emlyn Stream. The River Mole got its name from Molesey on the Thames much later and is evidence of London's ego overshadowing the counties of Surrey and Sussex. I asked him how he knew so much about the river's history, but he didn't answer."**

Esther nods in agreement. "Talking at you, rather than with you- he does that. But, at least he is talking again."

The brown haired woman looks up at the psychiatrist with reassurance. "There is more." She puts her empty tea cup down and shrugged her coat off. Then she slips her feet off the little footstool in front of the fire. Her muddy boots were still back by the kitchen door into the middle house.

Esther finds it interesting that she wore proper hiking socks- the double layered sort. She wonders what Sherlock had made of the therapist, as she watches the younger woman tuck her feet up to her side in the chair. She is warming up.

"We sat there in silence watching the river go by, and I just waited. It was important to give him total control of the conversation, not to push until he was ready. Finally, he just asked "Why  _you_? Who are you?"

oOo

She  had not answered his question, but waited, trying to understand the man's mood. She was concentrating on his body language- a strange combination of trying to look relaxed whilst being anxious. He was probably in pain, and feeling the aftershocks of withdrawal.

He had growled out, "Don't make me ask the question again. I  _hate_  repeating myself."

"My name is irrelevant. Make one up for me, if you'd like. Why me? Why do you think?" The question was mildly asked, and she put a trace of humour in her tone. She was not about to underestimate his powers of deduction, as so many of the medical professionals had over the years.

He had seemed genuinely puzzled. "You are not a psychiatrist. Nor a doctor. You make Esther Cohen a bit uncomfortable, but not enough to make her veto you. You don't make Hayter uncomfortable, so the two of you have…history. No, not in that stupid meaning so common today. You two haven't been lovers, but have worked together in some way. But, you're not Army, whereas he so  _obviously_  is."

He had looked at her with his peripheral vision, while keeping his eyes firmly on the flowing water that was moving the reeds at the river's edge.

"But, not a quack- my brother would have demanded you pass muster in some qualified way; loads of letters after your name are likely to impress a prat like him, born with his own titles. He is so predictable."

She had heard the distain in his tone, and the edge of anxiety. She had kept quiet.

Then he had sighed. "So, what is it? Another round of cognitive behaviour therapy? Or is it psychodynamic rubbish this time?" He had unfolded his arms that had been crossed across his chest, putting the gloved hands into the pockets of the long coat covering his knees. "Or maybe you're one of those happy-clappy types going to lecture me all about  _self-actualisation_. Total waste of time. If I were you, I'd just go back to the house and tell them that I am a bad patient. Just cut to the chase, everyone else has. My brother won't be surprised; he's used to it by now."

As the light had started to go, the wind rose. It blew his unruly hair about, and he had flipped the coat collar up to give him more protection. He looked up river. Sherlock had stopped deducing her, but was now in full spate of temper, which seemed to loosen his tongue.

"Does he think this makes a better consultation room? I suppose he hopes I will be grateful that he's put me here instead of a secure clinic somewhere. Well, I'm not. Grateful, that is. It doesn't matter whether there are no locks on the doors or bars on the windows. The microchip is insulting enough, like I was some sort of prized gundog prone to straying."

He had been angry; that much was obvious to Diane but she also heard underneath that strident baritone an undercurrent of shame and embarrassment.

"Perhaps my brother thinks I'm suffering from post-traumatic stress. He's an idiot if thinks that what happened in Serbia bothered me in the slightest. Physical abuse? Just someone denting the transport a bit. Irrelevant."

He stopped. "PTSD- that might be what brings you into contact with Hayter; he's had enough exposure to it. Possibly suffered from it himself- enough to give him delusions of grandeur that he can cure others. Yes, that's probably the connection. Well, I hate to disappoint everyone… _again_ , but I'm not suffering anything related to a trauma. Just me. Nothing's changed."

She had remained silent.

Finally, his patience had broken. "I don't have time to play games. Whatever psychological field or therapeutic school you belong to, just spit it out so we can get on with whatever is needed for me to get out of this little rural prison. I'm off the drugs now, and just have to jump through enough hoops to satisfy the control freak's desire to run my life for me. Get the ball rolling; let's start the little games you all want to play."

Diane had kept her eyes on the river. "No games. No rules, no hoops to be jumped through, Sherlock. This isn't about me; it's about you, and you don't have to conform to my or anyone else's ideas."

"Oh, good. So I can go now." He had sat up and taken his gloved hands out his pockets, rubbing them together to get the circulation going.

"Where would you go?"

He had looked downriver. "I've walked along this river twice before. Up over Box Hill, down to the Ember and then on to the Thames. From there, once I went upstream, the next downstream."

"What prompted those journeys?"

He had shrugged. "A way of getting from here to there."

"Did the first journey change anything?"

He had been silent for a moment or two, before answering "No. I thought it might at the time; went looking for someone to protect me. But I was  _so_ wrong. Well, I was only nine years old at the time; and, as he always likes to remind me, he's the  _smart_  one."

"Did the second trip change anything?"

He had scowled. "Not at all."

"So, why do you think making the same journey a third time is going to change anything? I thought you didn't like repeating yourself." This time, she had let her humour show, to lessen the sting.

He had not answered, but kept his eyes on the river, which was fast moving, swollen with winter rain.

Diane had looked at him, taking in his profile, watching him see her out of the corner of his eye. She had kept her gaze calm, open and kind. She had set herself in a state of mindfulness, aware that beginnings were important. She had emptied her mind of what she had read in the medical files, what others had told her.

 _Time to find some truth._  "Forget about all that; none of it is important. What do you really want?"

"To get away."

"Leaving here will not change things. You take the seeds of your distress wherever you go."

He had snorted. "What distress?" She could hear the scorn.

"What do you  _really_  want?"

He had seen the scrutiny but did not flinch from it. In fact, slowly, he had turned his eyes away from the river until he was looking straight at her. The silence had lengthened. The rushing sound of the river had seemed to retreat. His brow had furrowed, and his stare was as intense as hers was relaxed. She had let him read her, and had marvelled at the depth of his sight. She kept herself from returning the favour. Now was not the time to be  _seeing_  him or forming any views at all about him. She had decided to give him the gift of passive acceptance of all that intense scrutiny.

Finally, he had broken his gaze and looked back at the river. A large tree branch, broken off in a storm somewhere upstream was being propelled downriver by the current. They both had watched as it seemed caught for a moment in a whirlpool, before shaking itself free and carrying on its journey.

Sherlock had drawn in a breath. "I want…to be an island which no flood can overwhelm."

Diane had smiled. "You can regain control, Sherlock, through discipline and mindfulness. You have before, you will again. No one else can do it for you."

oOo

When Diane looks up from the flames of the fire, after recounting the conversation, she turns towards Esther.

"He chose to phrase it in the text of the twenty-fifth verse of the  _Dhammapada_ , having probably deduced my familiarity with it from my posture. I was trying hard to keep open to him, not to think about what you all seem so determined to tell me about him. So I quoted back to him the rest of the verse."

George blurts out, "the damma…what? What's that?"

Diane says quietly, "the dhammapada is one of the best known books of the  _Pitaka_. It is a collection of the teachings of the Buddha."

Esther can’t contain her surprise. "Where the hell did he learn anything about Buddhism?"

"Tibet. I asked him the same question on our way back to the house. Seems that whatever else happened while he was away, it wasn't all bad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: *use Google maps for Hartswood Manor, Reigate, then switch to satellite view if you want to follow his path.  
> **Sherlock has travelled this way before- twice. Once when he was nine years old on his way to Eton from Parham (see my story Ex Files, Expedition), and then again after he left Irene Adler with Mycroft, once the password was broken (See Level Up, final three chapters). It will keep you busy until the next chapter.


	9. Guided Imagery

"You're  _kidding_!" Her surprise is no less expressive despite being whispered. Mary is in the surgery's loo, and definitely does not want to be overheard by anyone, least of all John. She's only made the call because the patient she's shown in is an elderly chap in his eighties, and John is going to have to explain what polycythemia is and then talk him through the venesection procedures. She figures it will take him a good half hour, and that's why she's scheduled him for the last appointment of the day. Poor chap is afraid of needles, too. When the phone vibrated, she knew she'd have time to call Lidiya back.

"I don't believe it!"

There is a giggle. "Yeah- we were kind of surprised too."

Surprised wasn't the word for it. Mary whispers again, "John was  _so_  sure that Sherlock would just rip her to shreds."

"Nope. In fact, it gets better." Lidiya's tone becomes more conspiratorial. "This therapist is getting  _other_  people involved in the treatment. Your John's going to be one of them. And you, too, apparently. Don't make plans for Christmas."

"Oooh, that's good news. He's not doing so well out here, trying to figure out what's going on in there." The limp has gotten worse- to the point where yesterday she'd just handed him one of the crutches at the surgery and told him that if he didn't use it, he was going to cause all sorts of damage to his knees, back and other muscles.

"There's even  _more_. I went out this morning to have a ciggie, and what do you think happened?"

Mary dreaded Lidiya's phone link being discovered, but reasoned that if it had, the nurse wouldn't be using it now.  _She's smarter than that, thank God._

The Czech nurse giggles again. " _He_  shows up. I was soooo lucky that I hadn't managed to get the phone out of the hiding place by the barn. Then cool as can be, Sherlock cadges a smoke off me. While we're both puffing away, I'm just passing the time of day with him, and suddenly he's speaking Czech and asking me what a Bulgarian father is doing with a girl from Ostrava. The guy's got some ear for accents."

Mary keeps her voice down. "Did Sherlock's Czech have an accent? Did you recognise it?"

"Um, more like Brno. Not Slovakian, that's for sure, and not out of some language school text book. Be careful,Saša."

"Yeah, I know." She does know. With his powers of observation, Sherlock must have figured something out about her origins and her past. If he had, though, he was keeping it quiet, probably in deference to John.  _Thank you, Sherlock._

Mary had worked hard to eliminate the traces. Her English is north London, in line with her current birth certificate- and the previous three, as well. She'd gone out to Southern Sudan once qualified and buried herself as far away from the country that had killed her father, when it discovered that he'd been working for the Russian intelligence services for decades.

"I know he's got a reputation; Christ, the papers make him out to be a superhero. But, he's really nice. Wanted to know how I knew you."

Alarm bells rang. _Nice_? According to John, that word didn't exist in the Sherlockian vocabulary, unless he was trying to manipulate someone. In that case, he was charm personified. "How did he know that we know each other? You didn't tell him, did you?" Even in a whisper, Mary's concern would be crystal clear to her friend.

"Of course not. But, he must have guessed, somehow."

"So what the fuck did you tell him?" If anything, the volume of her voice dropped even further.  _No one must know. Not even Sherlock._

 _"_ Nothing! Just what we agreed- that you knew me from when we qualified in London."

Mary draws a deep breath to calm herself- a sniper's breath, taken in and held to ensure the smoothest of shots. Personally, she preferred a pistol if she had to resort to a weapon, but in her career she'd been lucky enough to be able to use her nursing skills more often than not when fulfilling her duties.

Even the first one—a Sudanese commander, killed by her with an insulin overdose injection, at the request of her colleague. She hadn't realised it at the time, but it was an initiation test. Bart Smith was an American doctor. Only after he'd managed to talk their way into the rebel's camp did he tell her who he was working for—the CIA.

 _Oh, tat'ka, you would be proud of me._  Her father had told her that he'd done what he'd done with no regrets; he believed in the better world promised by communism. Same motivations drove her to back the other side than her father, but times change. She always thought her father would understand.

His daughter did want to do something worthwhile. Saving lives? Yep—so, off to the refugee camps to help those in greatest need. Motivation to push the plunger home on the man responsible for massacring civilians was straightforward; one life taken, hundreds of lives saved. It was that mental arithmetic that led Bart to recruit her.

"People like you are needed by our team. You're not American, and you'll never travel to the USA or be connected in any way to us. That way, you can do things we aren't allowed to do, things that will help the cause of peace and stop people like these in Darfur. Think of it as executive outsourcing."

She'd bought it, and done her job over the years. Until she started to realise that she was being used to do things to people who weren't always 'like those bastards in Darfur.'  Under pressure from those who wanted complete deniability, the CIA allowed her team to go freelance, to be used by other countries, if the mission was acceptable. And what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. After four more years of working, she’d begun to wonder how it would ever stop. Then luck conspired to create an escape tunnel. The service thought she'd died in a bungled operation in Georgia, but she’d managed to survive and conn her way out of the country.

Now all she wanted was a quiet life with John. Which meant Sherlock, too, and a big brother's nosiness about her that would be kept at bay only so long as she proved useful in keeping them together.

"So, how have you left it?"

Lidiya giggles. "We've set up daily clandestine meetings by the barn. He's really missing the smoking much more than the drugs."

oOo

Sherlock eyes the skull that was sitting on the small table between them.

"You've been to Baker Street."

Diane nods. "Yes- went up last night and spoke to Mrs Hudson. She's on board with this, and willing to learn what is needed to help you."

His brow furrows. "Why is the skull here?"

"I want you to tell me about it, the story of how it came to be…what it is for you."

His suspicions flare. "What do you mean? What has Mrs Hudson said about it?"

"That's between her and me. I warned you; I won't reveal anything to you about what is discussed with the others, or to them about you. Patient confidentiality is sacrosanct."

He tries to imagine Mrs Hudson as a "patient"- and fails. "She doesn't need a psychiatrist."

Diane tilts her head and gave him a  _don't-pull-my-leg_  look. "I'm not a psychiatrist. And anyone involved with you needs therapy."

He decides to look offended.

She smirks. "Not playing that game. You know what I mean."

He does, unfortunately. Sherlock has been thinking a lot about her idea of 'involving' others. "What type of therapy do you have in mind for her?"

"I can't discuss individuals. You know that."

He sniffs, "then  _generically speaking_ , what's involved?"

Now it is Diane's turn to give him a suspicious look. "Is this fishing? Or are you trying to distract me from the skull?"

"I need to understand where this is coming from."

"I'm seeing each of the people who will need to support you when you leave here. I am discovering how they react to you and the degree to which they are currently part of the problem. Then we work on how to help them become part of the solution."

"What does that have to do with the skull?"

"Just answer the question, Sherlock. Start with  _describe_." Diane had explained the premise behind DEAR- describe, express, assert and reinforce. Together, they were to be the backbone of whatever tools Sherlock subsequently chose.

"It's a skull. What more can I say?"

"Tell me the story."

"Mrs Hudson doesn't like it. She says it gives her 'the creeps'. She seems to enjoy using sixties slang. Occasionally, she hides it from me."

"Why would she do that?"

To answer that would be  _far_  too revealing. He keeps quiet.

But, she isn't going for the deflection.

Finally, he lets his hands open in a gesture of surrender and rolls his eyes a bit. Time for a bit of smokescreen. "Mrs Hudson took offence one time, when I said that I preferred listening to the skull than to her because it was more intelligent."

Diane smirks. "I can imagine her reaction. The question is, did you intend hurting her feelings?"

There is an awkward pause.

" _Express_ , Sherlock. It's the next step."

He sniffs. "She went away and left me alone, which was the whole point of saying that to her."

"Then can you imagine why she would take it away from you?"

He sighs and rolls his eyes again, "Because she wanted me to pay attention to her. That's  _impossible._  I can only cope with her if I filter out the annoying bits. But, she doesn't take it personally."

"How do you know?"

He starts to speak but then stops himself. Then he frowns. "I just do. If she didn't, she'd tell me to leave. She doesn't." He gives a dismissive wave of his hand. "She's just  _there._ " If he is rude enough, then the therapist will simply chalk it up to his lack of empathy.

Diane smirks. "I'm not going to be deflected that easily. Let's return to my original question. Start with describing the facts, if that makes it easier. How did you obtain the skull and why have you kept it?"

"I keep lots of things." He wonders if his tone might be a little too defensive, so tries to inject more nonchalance. "If you went to Baker Street, then you saw. I have collections of butterflies, moths, beetles, a skull of a bison on the wall. I like skulls. The framed print of one is by John Pinkerton."

She looks at him- obviously not thrown off the scent. "This  _particular_  skull, Sherlock, tell me the story."

He huffs and starts to reel off the facts. "It's real. It's difficult to determine gender from just the skull, but deduction suggests that it is female. Males tend to have heavier superciliary arches, more marked temporal lines where the temporal muscles attach, and usually have a blunter, more rounded surface on the lower part of the orbit." He gestures at the skull. "These are sharper than that. Take a look at the back too- the external occipital protuberance is not very large; nuchal lines attach the neck muscles to the skull and they are smaller in women than men. It's not quite as definitive as pelvic structure, but the deduction is still valid."

She is shaking her head. "Still not answering the question, Sherlock."

He tries again. "Perhaps you are curious about the age? Look at the saggital suture- the squiggly line that runs from the back towards the front of the skull. This one's completely fused- which happens sometime between 34 and 40. And the coronal suture- that's the line that runs across between the two temples. That's fused, too. So, definitely past 40. The teeth are intact, therefore not likely to be in her seventies She has good teeth actually." He looks rather fondly at the skull, as if proud of its dental work.

Diane just sits back in the chair and stares at him, rather than the skull. The oriental carpet runner is still on the floor, but the meditation cushions have been replaced with two easy chairs, and a low round coffee table between them. When he'd commented on the change, she'd replied, "I'm not going to let you abuse meditation techniques again. This is something  _new._ "

The afternoon sunlight coming through the small bedroom's one window is starting to fade, but he can still clearly see her determination.

"Stop avoiding."

He shifts his shoulders a little. "It's not that unusual to keep a skull. It was a common item in the studies of learned men during Renaissance times, a sort of  _momento mori._ "

"Is that its function for you?"

He shrugs. "In part...It's also useful when considering the pathology of murder victims whose heads have been bashed in."

"How and when did you acquire it?"

Sherlock sighs. She is not being deflected.

He gives as little as he thinks he can get away with: "I was given it when I was seventeen, a gift from my chemistry master at school- a sort of parting shot before I went up to Cambridge. I had coveted it to add to my collection. He never told me how he got it, despite my asking. Said it was the skull's secret. He didn't tell me the sex of it; I deduced that much later." Then he stops, hoping this would end the line of inquiry.

She starts to smile, and the smile keeps getting broader.

"What?!" Now he is annoyed.

"Why don't you want to admit that occasionally you talk to the skull?"

"Who told you that?" He puts some outrage into it, annoyed that someone would betray something quite so private.

"More than one person, but that doesn't matter. That skull is actually important. It's the first tool I want you to consider using in our work together, especially as I think you are already halfway there."

"How?" He eyes the skull a little suspiciously. It feels odd to consider another person using it for something she wanted from him.  _You're mine._

"In exactly the same way as I suspect you have used it in the past."

He chooses not to reply to that. She is speculating. No one- not John, Mycroft or Mrs Hudson really knew what the skull means to him and how he used it.

"Sherlock, I know how objects are used to help teach communication skills." Now her voice seems to gentle, backing away from the slightly teasing tone she'd had before. "I can imagine how your mother would have used something- perhaps a favourite toy? Talking to inanimate objects helps you to focus. There's nothing unusual in that, nothing to be embarrassed about."

He still feels awkward saying anything.

"Remember the first condition of therapy with me- honesty."

He closes his eyes, and then sighs in defeat.

"Oh, all right. There have been times when I do use it as a visual stimulus to try out what I am going to say. Rarely does that actually involve 'talking out loud.' I'm not a child anymore."

"Who said you were?" Her smile has returned. "I think it's wonderful. You can put her to work for you in a new way."

He looks askance, "How?"

"I'm suggesting we use a tool called guided imagery."

"What's that?" He hates admitting ignorance, and begins to regret not keeping up with the latest neuropsychological therapeutic fads. There had been a time in his life when reading lots of learned journals on the subject had been needed to keep one step ahead of all the idiots his brother kept sending him to see.

Her eyes show him that she is observing his reaction, and he tries to consciously relax his shoulders.

"It's a bit of 'catch-all' phrase. Lots of different techniques are used, ranging from simple visualisation through to using extended fantasy, metaphor and story-telling. It's about engaging your imagination in problem solving. No one can solve your problems for you, Sherlock; you have to unlock the means within yourself. Guided imagery helps you free up your unconscious ability to help yourself. To start with, though, I suggest we use it to help you re-integrate your physical sensations with your mental thinking. It's about making you more conscious and  _mindful_  of your emotions."

He makes a face. "Emotions? They just get in the way."

"In the way of what?"

"Deduction, scientific enquiry, solving cases."

"All very admirable endeavours, I am sure, but they don't take 100% of your time. What do you do the rest of your life?"

"Get bored waiting for the next deduction, experiment or crime scene."

She shakes her head. "What do you feel when you are bored like this?"

"Bored."

"Not good enough an explanation, Sherlock. Try again."

He sighs. "Irritated, annoyed, my mind is…unoccupied and…" He stops himself from completing the sentence.

She waits.

The silence lengthens.

"And?" she prompts.

"In need of stimulation,  _any_  stimulation, in order to stop the chaos."

"What does the chaos look like?"

"Look?" He isn't sure that he understood the concept of a visual image to describe what was going on in his brain on those occasions.

Diane shifts her glance to the skull. "How would you describe it, if you were trying to explain it to her?"

He doesn't reply for a moment. Then, quietly, "She knows. I don't  _have_  to explain it."

Diane draws in a breath, and then eyes him speculatively. "Sherlock, mental images are formed long before we learn how to communicate. They are at the core of who we think we are, what we believe the world is like, what we feel we deserve, what we think will happen to us, and how motivated we are to take care of ourselves. These images strongly influence our beliefs and attitudes about how we fall ill, and what will help us to get better. You need to get those images working for you."

She leans forward. "The skull can become part of that- a visual stimulus, where elements of your unconscious are invited to appear as images that can communicate with your conscious mind."

"What's that actually mean?"

Diane's smile grows. "In time, instead of you just talking at her, the skull is going to talk  _back_."


	10. Two Magpies

At first, Diane thinks it will be best to leave him be for a while. After an hour, though, she starts to worry. The boys are tracking him on the GPS screen- he'd gone outside. After a couple of hours, she decides that he must be getting cold, so she puts on her coat and goes out to get him.

He is sitting on the bench at the end of the long garden. A magpie that is investigating the lawn flew up to a large oak as she approaches. She hears his reproachful chrrr, and raises her hand saluting the bird in reply.

"Why did you do that?"

She doesn't look at Sherlock, but simply sits on the bench, giving him plenty of space. She watches the magpie. "Old wives' tale, I suppose. A single magpie is supposed to be bad luck if you don't do it. Habit…"

"Bad luck more for him, than you."

She is confused.

"A bird that old would have had a mate for years. The fact that its calls aren't being answered means it's a widower."

"You're right; that's the reason why you're supposed to salute and say 'Where's your lady wife?' I'd forgotten that."

"Another superstition taught to you by your father."

She thinks about it. "That one came from my grandfather. He was the one with the country lore. My Nan was from South London- didn't know much about life down here. Her fiancé was killed in the war. Wanted to get away from the bomb-damage, so she married my dad on the re-bound. Fresh start and all that."

He doesn't answer.

"Sherlock, it's decision time."

He huddles deeper into his coat. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You need to decide whether you want to persevere with me, or let Esther find someone else."

"What difference does it make?"

She catches the world-weary tone, the whiff of depression. The wind blew another gust of cold air- it was coming off the North Downs and she reckons there will be a hard frost tonight. She shoves her hands deeper into her pockets. Despite the gloves, her fingers are feeling the cold.

"There is a difference. With me, there will be choice. All I propose to do is lay out some new tools and show you how they work. It's up to you to decide which ones you use. What I can guarantee is that none of them will be things you've done before. I'm not willing to play games. I meant what I said yesterday; there are no hoops for you to jump through. It's not about pleasing me, and I don't hold the key to your getting out of here- you do, you just don't know it yet. All I ask of you are two things, two conditions of working with me."

He sniffs. Then takes out his handkerchief and blows his nose, a little clumsily, because of his gloved hands. "What?"

"The first thing is honesty. There is no point in pretending to follow this or that approach. I will know if you are just going through the motions. If there are things that you cannot bear to tell me, then so be it, as long as you are honest with yourself."

He won’t look at her. She sees him watching the magpie, which is still hopping about on the tree branches. She waits. He needs time to think through the implications. Despite the fact that she is freezing, she has to give him the room to make the decision.

The bird is eyeing them, tilting its head from side to side as if trying to get a better look at them. She guesses it is deciding whether it could resume its position on the lawn without fear.

"Why do you want to do this? Is my brother paying you a vast sum to put up with me?" She hears the cynicism.

Diane laughes. "I haven't met your brother. Not yet. And I haven't discussed a fee with anyone. In any case, I wouldn't charge you any more than I would any other client. If you want to know my motivations, that's easy. I am doing this because George asked me to meet you. Now that I have, I know I can help. If you are willing to try. That's the first thing I really ask of you. That you realise you need to try."

"Why bother?"

She hears the despair, the pain. This is the reason she wants to work with him. Someone in that kind of pain needs help fast, or it will turn into something worse. Playing pass the parcel to another therapist would be an abdication of professional responsibility.

"You're worth it."

That makes him look at her briefly in confusion. "How can you say that? You don't know me."

"Life is precious."

He snaps back at her. "That's rubbish. Verse 17 is proof enough even for the most stalwart Buddhist."

She has to rack her brain for a moment; then it comes to her:  _Here he is tormented, hereafter he is tormented. The evil doer is tormented in both existences._   _He is even more tormented when he is reborn into a new life._

"Do you believe in reincarnation then?"

"Don't be absurd. I'm a scientist. I believe that the matter and energy of every living organism is reused, but there is no soul or consciousness that can survive death. One life is hell enough for me."

That conclusion frightens her, for his sake. The threat of being reborn in a lower form of existence kept the believer on the path. Without that, Sherlock would be cast adrift and might see his only way out in self-annihilation.

"Your death does not occur in a vacuum; there are ripples in the lives of those who care about you. Your life is not your own. And when you are gone, it’s not you who will feel the pain. Are you so cruel as to make them suffer the loss of you _again_?" It is a risk raising this issue quite so blatantly, but his train of thought seems to be spiralling downward. Unlike most suicides, Sherlock is in the unique position of being able to actually  _know_  the effect that his death would have on people.

Sherlock looks back at the magpie, which has flown down to the lawn again. It must have decided that neither of them posed a real threat. It is now strutting about, almost swaggering, fluffing out its pied feathers. She decides it is a most attractive looking bird, almost aristocratic in its demeanour, totally ignoring them as if they were beneath its dignity.

"You said there were  _two._ What is the second condition?

She takes some comfort from the fact that he hasn't said  _no_  yet, and is curious enough to ask for more data. "Whatever you do here will not last if you don't have the support of others after you leave. But, they won't know how. I'll hazard a guess that you think most of the people who care about you do it badly. Interfere, try to control you, tell you what to do. They make mistakes that make your life harder. If you agree to work with me, then you also have to agree to me working with them, too."

He tilts his head, as if perplexed. She is reminded of the magpie, investigating them to decide whether they were dangerous.

"No one should care about me; I don't."

She smirks. "They do. Get over it. Learn to live with it."

"Human error on their part."

"Maybe, but nothing is going to convince me that you aren't human either, and capable of making the same mistake."

He doesn't answer. Sherlock is watching the magpie, which had now hopped onto the lowest branch of a hazel tree. It churred again, petulantly.

"Aren't people supposed to learn from their mistakes?"

"Yep. That's why I need your permission to work with them."

His brow furrows. "And would that involve telling anything of what happens between you and me?" The suspicion is so thick she could have cut it with a knife.

Diane chuckles. "No, of course not. But the reverse is true, too. You don't get to know a single thing about what happens between me and them either. If you or they want to share something, then it has to be done between you."

"Who's  _them_?"

She has thought about this, and talked it over with both Esther Cohen and George. "Let's start with the three people whose lives you saved by being seen to kill yourself: Mrs Hudson, Greg Lestrade and John Watson." She waited for a reaction, hoping that it wouldn't be the same as Esther had seen when Sherlock mentioned his friend yesterday.

"You'd have to add his fiancé Mary into that." He stops, as the magpie lets off a racket of chattering.

When the cacophony stops, Sherlock continues, "He might not agree, given his commitments now."

"According to both George and Esther Cohen, they had to forcibly eject John Watson from here before you woke up. He  _wants_  to be involved, and Mary's right there beside him saying she does, too."

Sherlock does not reply.

"I'll add into that mix your brother."

He starts chuckling. "Good luck. I'd give anything to see that little scene- you telling him that he's got it wrong all these years."

"Maybe you both have. Progress is only really possible if you all recognise that each of you is doing the best you can at this, but that everyone has got to change if improvement is to be made. Whatever has happened in the past, it is possible to change the future, Sherlock."

"Saying that makes it sound easy."

"It isn't. Think of this as the hardest thing you've ever done, but it will work."

"How can you  _know_  that?"

"Because you have done so in the past, and you will again, with the support of those who care."

The magpie flies from the hazel back down to the lawn, but its behaviour changes. It brings the loose white feathers on its flanks over to cover its black primary flight feathers, and it fluffs out its shoulder patches. The effect is to accentuate the white. Diane is bemused by the attention that Sherlock seems to be paying to the bird. "What's up with the magpie?"

He speaks very quietly. "It's trying to attract a new mate."

"How do you know?"

"Ssh." He lifts a gloved hand to silence her

She listens as the big bird began a soft call, quite different from its usual chatter.

From a tree behind them, another smaller magpie appears. It dips low over the lawn and then lands in the same hazel that the other one had recently occupied. It is clearly listening to the one on the lawn, investigating.

She glances at Sherlock, who now has a tiny smile.

The new magpie drops to the lawn and comes up to the other one. She watches in amazement as the two birds do what could only be described as a chest bump.

She giggles. Without thinking, Diane recited the rhyme, "One for sorrow; two for joy."

The bigger bird raises his head feathers, ending up looking like a punk, and then lifts up its long splendid tail, opening and closing it like a fan. The smaller one crouches and opens its black beak in supplication, begging for food. The bigger one obliges by picking up a twig from the lawn and putting it into her beak.

Her laughter startles the two birds. The bigger one flies away. After a moment's hesitation, the smaller one follows.

"Was that the bird version of a chat-up line? Get started on building your nest, woman!"

Sherlock shrugs. "To each, their own. Did you know that the magpie's brain-to-body ratio is the largest in the avian world? In fact, it's bigger than almost all mammals, comparable to cetaceans and great apes."

She is surprised. "Are they as smart as humans?"

"Maybe we can be as smart as they are."

She is struck by that observation.

He stands up from the bench, and takes two strides away. Then he stops and looks back at her, his brow furrowed. "Well, are you coming?"

Diane realises that the rather churlish request might be indicative of something rather important. "By asking that, does this mean you agree to my two conditions?"

He rolls his eyes. "I would have thought that was obvious." He turns away and starts towards the manor house.

When she gets up and follows him, she is smiling.


	11. First Therapy Session

"Sherlock?"

From the other side of the bedroom door, he recognises the voice of Esther Cohen, and wonders whether he should tell her to go away. He had shut it hours ago, irritated by the distant sound of voices in the kitchen. He'd heard the connecting door to Hayter's house open- and deduced that he and the new therapist must have gone through. It isn't paranoia to assume that she would be debriefing him and the psychiatrist about their walk. The noise then came from the other minions- the nurses and his brother's agents. He despises them all; their presence is a reminder of his state of limbo.

 _Gather data before drawing conclusions._  If the mantra worked for cases, then it might for this situation, too. His brother is not following the usual pattern of command and control, and that makes him both curious and anxious. He keeps silent, wondering if Doctor Cohen might provide some useful input on what is going on at Hartswood Manor.

As he anticipates, she takes the lack of a reply as an invitation to enter. He supposes that after the more than twenty years of knowing him, she is entitled to draw the right conclusion from his lack of response.

The psychiatrist has aged in the previous three and a half years; he'd seen that much from the cursory glance when he'd marched into the kitchen and called the new therapist out to walk with him. Now he notices that Esther's hair is more white than grey, and there are more wrinkles than he remembered.

"Why haven't you retired yet?" As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his ears hear the waspish tone, and he wonders where it had come from.

"I have, for the most part anyway. I'm not treating you this time. Think of me as a  _consulting_  psychiatrist." He can hear the humour, a gentle enough gibe at his own description of himself.

"Why  _her_?" He is still feeling the effects of his riverside walk, and hugged his Belstaff for comfort.

"Not my choice. But…what I've seen, I've come to like. She's different. More willing to put you in charge."

"And that's supposed to help?" He lets the irony show.

Esther chuckles. "Well, I could be rude and say something about the blind leading the blind, but then you've never been willing to engage properly before, so maybe making you responsible for the decisions will be better. After all these years, you know the predictable stuff as well as any clinician, and can trot out the required answers without believing a single word. I can hope that it will be harder to lie to yourself."

She pulls out the chair from beside the chest of drawers. "I need to sit. Arthritis in my left knee is getting to be a right pain these days."

He turns away from the windows and looks at her properly.

"Why is it different this time?"

"Is it?"

He shrugs. "No locks on the doors, no drugs, no big brother doing his usual lecturing routine."

"That's never really worked in the past, has it? So, perhaps your brother thinks it's time to put  _you_  in charge."

 _As if_. "If you believe that, then you're already in the early stages of dementia."

After more than twenty years of being at the receiving end of his scathing comments, she appears to be immune to his barbs. She just answers him,"Perhaps he is desperate enough to try something new. The question is, are you?" She gestures towards the bed. "Why don't you sit down?"

He isn't ready to do that. Anxiety about the whole situation is making him uncomfortable.

"Sherlock, please sit."

He ignores her and starts to pace. "If he was  _really_  willing to let me make decisions, then he wouldn't have put this wretched thing in my back."

"Why does it make a difference? If you really want to go, you can walk out the door right now. The two men he's got here won't stop you."

He has reached the far wall and turns back towards her. "Then why does he have to know where I am?"

"Perhaps it is for your own safety. Maybe it's better to think of it as a safety net."

"That's ridiculous." He strides past her without looking at her.

"Sherlock, the one thing that I haven't heard out of you yet is your usual mantra, 'I'm fine'. I'm glad. We both know that something is bugging the hell out of you. Take the time now to fix it. She can help. So can Hayter."

He takes two more steps before grinding to a halt, looking down at the carpet.

"Where's John?"

It comes out unbidden, in a whisper. John is the missing link. He needs his friend to help him make sense of this, the way he had before, when Mycroft had forced him into rehabilitation after the events following the confrontation with Moriarty at the pool*.  _Before_  – yes, that is the problem.  _Before_  he'd destroyed John's trust in him with the Sigurson Plan.

 _Before_  he'd been forced to delete John from his Mind Palace or face going mad.

 _Before_  he'd returned to John's anger and rejection.

 _Before_  John had 'forgiven' him.

 _Before_  everything had changed because John had found the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

After all of that, he had no right now to even think that John might take an interest in what was happening to him.

 _Loss and abandonment_ \- the emotions are so strong that they literally overwhelm him. He finds it hard to breath for a moment, and is grateful that he is facing away from the psychiatrist.

Even so, she is on her feet and beside him in an instant. She drags the chair with her, and guides him into it.

"Put your head down between your knees."

He obeys, suddenly light-headed.  _This is absurd._

Speaking to the floor, he mumbles, "Forget I asked that question; it's just me being stupid. I know why John isn't here. He has better things to do than to waste his time here."

"Oh, stop it. That isn't true. He's being kept away because the last two times he's been with you, you've had a panic attack that you can't even remember. And here you are now, in a right state, just because you asked a question about him. What's going on, Sherlock?"

"Nothing." He takes a deep breath and stands up. "And everything." The solution to loss was simple. The abbot had shown him how when he'd broken the teapot**. The answer to the pain of loss is to stop wanting. Simple deletion wasn't enough. Collapsing the Mind Palace into a smaller, more functional form wasn't enough. He is going to have to do something more permanent.

He makes a decision. "I will talk tomorrow with your therapist. Tell me what you know about her now."

oOo

"Breath in slowly, on a count of four. Hold it for four more, then breath out for four."

Suddenly, her voice is not the same as the one he hears in his head. He knows that Diane's is a richer alto with a transatlantic accent; the cadence of her speech betrays her Brooklyn origins. In fact, other than the words themselves, there is little to have caused his mind to blank her out and reach backwards for another softer, maternal voice from his past.

The sense of  _loss_  that accompanied the memory of his mother saying those words is so strong that it makes his chest tighten, his fingertips hurt. He gasps and loses the rhythm of his breathing, the calm pace ruptured into panting, and he feels his eyes sting.

"Sherlock?" There is concern in the therapist's voice.

He slips out of the meditation posture and stood up abruptly. Walking barefoot over the wooden floor to the window, he puts his palm out flat to feel the cold through the old glass. The shock of the freezing temperature gives him something physical to focus on, grounding him and he gets his breathing under control again.

 _Not now; not again._  He knows that he has to deal with this sense of loss. It was his weakness, always. People died, left, and changed. He was always left bereft.  _Caring is not an advantage._  That brings a tiny flicker of amusement; did Mycroft know that his admonishment was an integral part of the Eightfold Path? Sherlock is sure that somewhere in that congested archive that is his brother's brain, the knowledge of the basic tenets of Buddhism would be stored alongside those of the world's other religious faiths, probably cross-referenced with "causes of war and diplomatic disputes". The idea of actually applying any of it to his own behaviour is about as likely as the mountain coming to Muhammad. He grabs the humour of that image like it was a lifeline, and lets it drag him back away from the abyss.

oOo

Diane Goodliffe watches Sherlock put his hand on the cold glass, his back turned to her. She remains seated, in the classic meditation posture of someone taught in the southern school of Buddhism. She is concerned that he has stopped the session almost as soon as she'd begun it. But, she keeps her face neutral; it is crucial to show no judgment there. She simply waits for him.

She's been waiting patiently since their walk yesterday back from the riverside. While she waited, she remembered each step that had brought the two of them to this point. Esther Cohen had told her that Sherlock would talk with her again in the morning, so she'd returned to Hartswood after an early breakfast. He came down to the kitchen after nine, where Lidiya and George were making breakfast.

"Good morning, Sherlock." George had poured him a mug of tea and left it on the edge of the table. Ingrid was cooking bacon. With a bright and breezy smile, she had turned from the frying pan and waved the spatula at him. "Hungry? I'll fix you some eggs and toast to go with this."

"No."

The shortness of the reply had made George frown. "No supper last night; no breakfast this morning. Not exactly a recipe for recovery."

Sherlock had not answered, but focused his attention on drinking the tea as rapidly as he could. He wouldn't meet anyone's eye.

 _He really doesn't like people he doesn't know._ Diane could sympathise. She is trying to get her head around what it must be like being confronted by a group of people who had been thrust upon him without his consent. The only familiar face is a psychiatrist from his past- who would be a potent reminder of his previous enforced therapies. Esther and George had briefed her about this latest intervention process, and what had led to it. She'd listened with one ear, and filed it away. Would it be useful? Probably not. He'd had a lifetime of ignoring what other people thought was his "problem" and when it reached "crisis". If Sherlock is to accept her help now, she would have to give him the power of choice, a process that he would need to initiate of his own free will. So, she has to wait.

Her patience in the kitchen had been rewarded far faster than she expected. Sherlock had put the empty mug down on the table top with a thump and then had looked at her for the tiniest of moments, and nodded his head. Diane had followed him out of the kitchen, down the hall and into the living room.

"How does this work, then?" He had stood with his back turned to her, looking out of the set of three windows onto the gravel drive and the fields beyond.

Her heart had gone out to him. He was anxious and uncertain, but trying to hide it behind a brusque front.

"That's up to you. Before any decisions need to be made, however, I suggest that you spend some time settling yourself. As the 372nd verse says, there can be no insight without meditative concentration. I could help in that initial process, if you wish."

His answer had been just a nod. She worked at containing her delight.  _No need to scare him_.

They had commandeered a spare bedroom at the top of the big house. The two agents were banished from the premises, and sent to sulk in George's house, where the two nurses had also been sent. They had decided to cook a lunch for the four of them, plus Esther Cohen and George. With an empty house between them, and the quiet of the big house to themselves, Diane had hoped that he would be able to relax a bit.

Sherlock had choses the location, reasoning that Mycroft's men would not have bothered to bug an empty bedroom. But even then, he'd spent almost an hour investigating the space on the top floor before pronouncing it fit for purpose.

He had agreed to her request for a small oriental carpet, more of a runner in shape and she appropriated two cushions on which to sit. "My bones are getting to the age where they can be a distraction from meditation," she had explained.

There is no heating in the room, but Sherlock had told her that it was infinitely more comfortable than the hard stone of the monastery, which had been open to the harsh Tibetan climate. Glass windows were a luxury not in the architecture of such a simple order. While he had checked the room for surveillance devices, he told her about the months he had submitted to the discipline, and the refuge he had taken there.

She had been encouraged by his willingness to try meditation again, but that had rapidly turned to dismay because of his sudden abandonment of it after the first few breathing exercises. Diane can only imagine the pain that is blocking him from meditation, and she waits in the hope that he will be able to find his control again.

When after ten minutes Sherlock turns back from the window, the angles of his face are shadowed. There is no light other than what could make its way in through the only window in the small room.

"Forgive me. "र्Lएत् गो ओf थे पस्त्, लेत् गो ओf थे fउतुरे, लेत् गो ओf थे प्रेसेन्त्".

She drops her eyes as Sherlock returns to sit down opposite her, tucking each ankle over the opposite knee and straightening his back. The cushion tips his pelvis forward a bit, and his hands rest in a relaxed way on his feet. When he glances at her for a moment, she gives a smile. "Is that Tibetan? Or Sanskrit? I'm not familiar with either. I was taught in Pali."

He translates, " _Let go of the past, let go of the future, let go of the present_."

She nods. "The 348th verse of the Dhammapada…a good place to start. Are you willing to try again?

When he nods, she continues, "Now, focus on your breathing."

He settles, and she can see him beginning the patterns of four.

Quietly, with a voice that carries calm at its heart, she begins. "Time is a manifestation of space, so think about this moment. You chose the verse well. Simply be in this moment, a single point of focus and determination. Space and time are purified with our respect."

His breathing is slowing, getting deeper, still in the patterns of four. His shoulders relax. His jaw is no longer clenched with whatever had distressed him earlier. His chin dips, allowing his not-seeing gaze to focus on the floor between them.

She half- closes her own eyes, and focuses on the same spot. Slowing her own breathing, she starts, "You have chosen this space. Now empty it of meaning. Strip away your memories of what it has meant to others, and to you."

Diane waits, applying the technique herself. She sets aside her thought of the room as a manifestation of George Hayter, and her concerns that Sherlock is determined to ensure it wasn't bugged. It becomes just a wooden floor, panelled walls, plaster ceiling- bare, empty. A void.

When she thinks he is ready, she continues. "Now I want you to transform this space. Relax beyond the limits of what you think is real or possible. Imagine you are in a safe place. This is a sanctuary, one of your own choosing. If there is no real one that you can remember, then create a new one in your mind. This is your temple, your palace, your inspiration."

She stops herself from trying to imagine what Sherlock would choose as his sanctuary. Today is not about therapy; that should only happen once he agrees to it. This meditation is simply to help him find the inner calm needed to make such an important decision. She gently pushes aside her concerns about him, and concentrates on finding her own place of peace. She would not be able to help him if her own conflicts and worries interfere. Another round of twelve counts and her mind opens to her little gazebo, tucked in the corner of her garden in Reigate. She had built it herself, and furnished it with a small fire pot to warm it in winter. Positioned to catch the morning sun, the space is her private haven. She uses it to clear her own mind- something that therapists needed to do, if they are to remain open to their patients. So many of her colleagues took their patients' woes onto their own shoulders; the accumulation of stress could damage both parties.

"Let your senses turn inward. Feel the floor beneath you, the weight of your body on it, the pulse of your blood. Now in this void around you, inside your sanctuary, imagine a force field surrounds you, and nothing can penetrate it. The field around you is a filter, nothing stressful or toxic can penetrate here. This is your sanctuary. In here it is safe to ease your mind and nervous system." She quotes from the Dhammapada, " _This is the safe refuge, the supreme refuge. Having gone into such a refuge, one is released from all suffering_."

She needs to see how he is getting on, so she lifts her gaze and observes. "Sherlock, it is safe here to disarm, to relax enough to simply enjoy the now."

His eyes are half closed, but she could see that they are not focused on anything in particular. Sherlock's hands had come together, palms upward, knuckles resting on the back of his heels; his thumbs are touching. She gives herself a moment to enjoy the fact that he felt confident enough in her presence not to be distracted by it. Watching the rise and fall of his chest, Diane realises he is using an advanced technique,  _Ujjayi Pranayama_ , breathing deeply through his nose to fill his lungs, whilst constricting his throat. Then a short explosive exhale is followed by another longer, passive inhale. But he is taking it at quite a pace- her experienced eye estimates it at nearly 80 contractions a minute. Then he opens his mouth and exhales slowly, inhaling just as slowly for four breaths. Then he resumes the technique.

 _Good. This is very promising._  The exercise of "skull brightening breath" involves imagining the lining of your mind being purified, and toxins expelled forcefully. The technique clears the head, releases emotions and exerts physical control. She decides he is ready to move on. Perhaps she can begin to get a better understanding of where he is mentally, and what sort of approach will be helpful.

"Time to turn your mind to the four thoughts. Begin with however you wish to celebrate the preciousness of human life being endowed with liberty and opportunity. It would help me guide you if you could tell me how you are envisaging this."

A quiet baritone rumbles, " _By effort and mindfulness, by discipline and self-mastery, the wise man builds an island that no flood can overwhelm_."

 _He returns to this._  The twenty fifth verse clearly has meaning to Sherlock. It is a yin, one side of the interconnected forces- the side that is passive, covert, hidden. It is the impulse to withdraw, to avoid. She wonders if he understands the yang- that no wise man can avoid being submerged in the flow of life, that Dhamma requires engagement in order to drive understanding.

She lets the silence grow, allowing him time to consider the verse, hoping that he might see the whole context. Then she moves on. "And now the second thought- how do you chose to view the certainty of death with the uncertainty of when it might come, and how best do you prepare for it?"

Sherlock waits until the cycle of his breathing stops for the slow exhale and even slower inhale. In the break he says, " _The body is as fragile as a clay pot. Knowing this, fortify the mind like a citadel, guarding it with the sword of wisdom. Guarding the conquest, remain unattached_."

The fortieth verse. Is it co-incidence that this is another avoidance choice? The dysfunctional approach to his body that Doctor Cohen mentioned comes back into her mind. This is a man of mind, one who will seek to separate it from the temptations and sensations of his body. Dissociation might be an unwelcome by-product, if such a perspective is not balanced by recognising the countervailing physical needs. The Buddha argued against excessive asceticism.

Diane withholds judgment; she does not know Sherlock well enough to worry about him in this way. Time to press on. "Now the third thought- what we experience is the result of our own actions- both past and present. We are ourselves responsible for our own happiness and misery. We create our own heaven, our own hell. What verse do you chose to contemplate the inexorability of karma?"

This time there is no hesitation. " _The witless man is tortured by his own evil deeds, like one burnt by fire._ "

The excerpt from the 136th verse is said in a harsh tone, one full of self-loathing. Stating the verse breaks his rhythm of breathing, and for a moment or two he struggles to recover his equilibrium. In the way he spoke, Diane hears not acceptance, but something more cruel-  _shame._  That will take time to work on; perhaps Sherlock believes that his current state of mind is his own fault. Rather than accepting it is the consequence of things that have happened to him, as well as what he had made of those events, it is, again, as if he seeds only the negative in himself.

"And lastly, the fourth thought- what brings into focus for you dissatisfaction with the compulsive existence, the samsara?"

He does not reply immediately this time. Eventually, quietly, he recites, " _Do not cling to compulsion. Do not follow heedlessly. Hold no false views; do not linger in worldly existence._ "

The 167th verse- an innocuous choice? Perhaps not, for someone who has attempted suicide on several occasions. Doctor Cohen had made sure she knew about those.

While she is thinking about this ultimate avoidance strategy, he breaks his meditation stance, and looks up from the floor. Straightening his spine and lifting his shoulders with renewed tension, he locks eyes with her, focusing a razor sharp gaze on her.

He rasps out, "Consider the 176th verse:  _For a liar who has violated the one law of truthfulness, who scorns the consequences, there is no evil that he cannot do._ Miss Goodliffe, I am that man."

It is said with such vehemence that it stuns her a bit. She watches as he rises from the lotus position and strides out of the room, anger and remorse in equal measure pouring off him.

In the space of a half hour of simple meditation exercises, Diane has learned a lot about Sherlock. That he has the capacity to use meditation techniques at a very high level could not be disputed. His knowledge of the sacred scripts is admirable. But he is not using them to find a balance. He seems to be taking from them only what he wants to use against himself. That he is deeply troubled is now clear. But most of all, Diane is shocked by his use of his learning as a stick with which to beat himself. This is going to be a difficult journey for them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the crude translation of the English version of the 34th verse above. I struggled to find any form of online translation tool that would give me a version in sanskrit or tibetan. There is no Google translator for Tibetan. As one reviewer pointed out, it is not easy! What I was trying to convey is that Sherlock learned the text in the language it was taught to him, while he was in Tibet.  
> *This is covered in Collateral Damage and Sidelined.  
> **For those of you who are unfamiliar with Sherlock's time in Tibet, and who may have difficulties imagining him using meditation, go read Still Talking When You're Not There, Chapters 9, 11 and 13. That Sherlock spent time in Tibet is canon-compliant with Arthur Conan Doyle's stories. Oh, and Benedict Cumberbatch spent a gap year teaching Tibetan monks English.


	12. Lestrade

"You have homework."

He looks suspiciously at the recording device that Diane has placed on the table, alongside a typed sheet. The skull sits next to it, unperturbed by its presence.

"I'm going up to London for a day and a night; I'll be back tomorrow afternoon."

He is feeling grumpy today. It is barely seven a.m. and it is still dark outside, but he had agreed to meet her at this ungodly hour.  _It's not as if I have anything better to do._ Withdrawal always left him itchy, uncomfortable. He'd had a lousy night; his sensory overload is being a nuisance and it makes him irritable and unable to sleep. Nicotine withdrawal is giving his nerves a definite rasp right now. His next rendezvous with the nurse for a cigarette won’t be for another six hours.

He decides that in his current mood, snide will suit best. "Last minute Christmas shopping?"

She smiles. "No, it's time for me to find out about the men in your life."

He raises a sceptical eyebrow. "There aren't any."

She tilts her head. "Oh, I thought that Greg, John and Mycroft were men."

He thinks about that for a moment. "Their gender isn't relevant."

"Isn't it?"

She has this habit, which he has decided was slightly annoying, of asking questions in a gently teasing tone. He decides he could give as good as he got. "Are  _you_ looking for a man? You're unmarried, but have probably left things too late if you fancy children. John's taken already, Lestrade is divorced and my brother- well, I don't think you're his type. In fact, I'm sure no one is his type."

She smiles. "This isn't about me; it's all about  _you._ "

"What's that supposed to mean?" He's also discovered that she is more than usually able to avoid his deflection techniques.

She ignores that question- another attempt at deflection foiled.

"Your homework- while I am away, I want you to answer three questions about each of those three people I'm seeing. First, tell me what your first memory of them is. Second, choose another significant experience that you had with them, and thirdly, what happened the first time you saw them again after your recent absence. In your answers, I want you to practice the D.E.A.R.  _Describe_  the facts first- like a scientist, or a crime scene examiner- you should be good at that. I want not just what happened, but also a description of your physical reactions at that moment. You claim an eidetic memory, so recalling exactly what your body was doing at the time should be possible, if you work at it."

"Why does  _that_  matter?" He is annoyed by her insistence on knowing what is going on with him physically. He taps the side of his temple. "It's just the means to get  _this_  from place to place."

The therapist looks at him. "Your brain doesn't function in a vacuum, Sherlock. You're the biochemist, so you know what hormones, stress and neurotransmitters do to your thought processes."

Of course he does. But he has learned over the years that explaining how cocaine assists his brain doesn't seem to convince many people, no matter how many times he said that the only difference between it and any one of the other serotonin re-uptake inhibitors they prescribed is that his choice is illegal. Physical reactions? No one has ever asked him for this level of detail, but he figured if he worked at it, he'd be able to recall his how his body had responded to the events she wanted him to discuss- for what good it would do her.

She carries on talking. "On the last question- the one about their reactions to your homecoming, you have to  _express_  what you felt. Yes, I know- that means your emotions, Sherlock. If you are able to  _assert_  what you wanted to have happened, and contrast that to what actually happened, then that would be a step forward."

"What's the recording device for?"

"You have to give the answers to the skull, and record it."

That sounds most peculiar. "Why?"

"Because you can't just  _think_  it; you have to frame the words and say them- out loud."

He rolls his eyes. "Why would I be so stupid as to do this?"

"If you are worried about confidentiality, then don't be. I will listen when I get back and then give the recordings back to you. If you want to give them to the person concerned, then that's up to you."

"Now that  _really_  would be stupid."

"So, destroy them. It's your choice. What are you afraid of?"

"I am not  _afraid._  I just don't see the point."

"You will. Think of it as an experiment."

"I'm not sure I like that idea."

"I can't explain more now, lest it affect the outcome. You, of all people, should know the dangers of compromising one's research subjects."

While he is thinking about that, she gets up, says goodbye and leaves. He ignores her departure.

As her footsteps echo on the wooden stairs, he realises the skull is staring at him.

"What are you looking at?"

_I'm ready; are you?_

He sighs. Sherlock has not told Diane that the skull almost always talks back. Sometimes, she even initiates a conversation.

oOo

"How did you react when he first contacted you? I understand it was before the news became public."

Diane Goodliffe's first appointment is with Greg Lestrade. The DI ahd agreed to meet her early before work "really gets going" at New Scotland Yard. Now both are ensconced in his office; with just a few early morning stragglers coming into the open plan room behind them, they both drank coffee. The greying detective had spent the first ten minutes answering her questions about how he'd met Sherlock and of the times they had shared. Diane tries to avoid pigeon-holing the man, but it was easy to see there was a paternal concern underlying his remarks.

Her latest question makes him smile.

"He ambushed me in the parking garage downstairs. First, that bloody voice came out of the dark telling me that the cigarette I was lighting up would kill me, then he stepped out of the shadows as bold as can be, as if I'd never spent the last two years missing him." He smiles again at the memory.

"I called him a bastard and then gave him a great big bear hug." The DI smirks. "He's not one for physical contact, but…well, I couldn't resist. I was just so damned glad to see him that I didn't care if it made him uncomfortable or not. He deserved it, the idiot."

"You care a lot about him then."

"Damn right I do."

"Why?"

"Because he's  _Sherlock_ \- daft, brilliant, one-of-a-kind. My life would not have been half as interesting or fulfilling without him."

"How did you two first meet?"

"Years ago. He was sixteen. I was a Detective Sergeant and on my first crime scene as Officer in Charge. He saved me from making a big mistake, explained how it was an accident, not a homicide, despite appearances to the contrary."

"So, smart even then."

He nods. "And considering he was high as a kite on drugs at the time, pretty damned impressive." He pauses. "I realised his ID was fake, and took him to the station for being underage and under the influence."

"Oh dear. Not the best way to make friends."

"That's never been on his agenda. He told me I was an idiot the first night I met him, and he's been telling me the same thing ever since."

"So, why do you think he cares about you?"

"Don't know; you'll have to ask him."

She noted that he has not denied that Sherlock did care. "Try to put it in words, please."

"Why?"

Diane is trying not to reveal too much, but Sherlock's  _circle_ , as she has come to think of them, need an explanation. "Because getting his take on the same events and comparing them to yours is something that will help him realise that the perspectives are different, and that he needs to accommodate that fact. It's part of the dialectical process, and the realisation is needed if he is to improve."

She decides that with Lestrade she can risk the other side of the equation, too. "It's also not just about him, but you, too. I hope you'll get to hear his version, and begin to see how things look from his side. Once the people who matter to him begin to accept him for what he really is, as opposed to what they think he ought to be, then you'll all be in a better position to help him."

Diane leans forward a bit, and drops her voice just a little. "So, why do you think he cares about you?"

While she'd been explaining, the detective had put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his clasped hands. When she asks the question again, the hands come apart and he shrugs. "Probably because I am a conduit to cases that keep him off the drugs. Possibly, because I am useful as a cut-out between him and his brother. Maybe, because I'm someone who was always willing to give him another chance."

"Unconditional acceptance?" She hopes it is.

"Apart from the drugs. I can't work with him if he's high- that's always been a red line."

"But you don't stop caring when he is on the drugs?"

"No, of course not. If anything, he needs me more then, just on a personal level, not a professional one."

"Why do you think he uses drugs?"

He looks down at his almost empty coffee cup for a moment. "Don't get me wrong; I'm a cop for God's sake, so I can't condone the use of drugs. But, if I were him? Yeah, I'd be at it, too. You just have no idea what he has to cope with. I don't think any of us do. People on the Spectrum get told they're wrong, they're defective. If they're as gifted as he is, then they're called a freak. It's a lifetime of being targeted, of bullying, harassment, stupidity. It's enough to make anyone want to cry. Add to that his sensory issues and the problems with understanding other people that come with the Spectrum…" He puffs out his cheeks and shook his head sadly. "If the drugs help take away the pain of all that, then I can understand why he does them. I don't think they are good for him in the long run, but I don't  _blame_  him."

The Di takes the final sip of coffee, and then finishes, "Maybe that's why he's willing to have me help him through withdrawal. I try not to judge. It's not my place."

With that answer, Diane now understands why Lestrade had been one of the three people used by Moriarty in his plans against Sherlock. And why he'd already been at Hartswood Manor to help Sherlock through withdrawal. She wonders if the DI really understands how important he is to Sherlock.

Now it is his turn to ask a question. "How's he  _really_  doing?"

There. She's been waiting, hoping, for that question. "He's recovering. No more…incidents."

His eyebrows go up at her choice of words. "Incident? Look, what happened that night when I was there  _matters_. He wasn't high, he wasn't delirious with fever. This is something  _new_. I haven't a clue what the hell happened to him in China, but it scares me. He's never been like that before now."

"He's through physical withdrawal, and he's agreed to therapy, of sorts. But it's early days. I want to establish a foundation of trust before I go digging into the trauma." Diane has to balance her need to deal with their concerns, whilst respecting Sherlock's privacy as much as she could. "At this stage, I need to work with you and others who are important to Sherlock. There are things that need to change in the way people support him, or else what progress he does make will be undermined."

The Detective Inspector gives it some thought before responding. Finally, he says "that's good. Anything- and I do mean anything- I can do to help, just tell me. Are you going to be able to get to the bottom of what happened when he was away?"

"I'm going to try to help him do so, yes. But, one step at a time."

Diane then explains the premise of guided imagery, and that with Sherlock, she thinks it might be harder for him to express his feelings- both emotional and physical- and to actually assert what he really wants. "It may be he's denied that he has emotions for so long that he's come to believe they are the root of all the evil that happens to him. So, he wouldn't be able to tell anyone what he's feeling because that would be a betrayal of his mental image of himself."

"Are you're saying that he's denying that there is a problem?"

"The therapy is designed to help him realise that he  _can_  admit that, and to get him talking about it."

"How does it work?"

In answer, she asks "does your phone have a recording app?"

Greg nods. "Yeah- I use it to make notes. Quicker than writing something down." He smirked. "Used to record Sherlock on the sly- he's so bloody fast at crime scenes that I can hardly keep up."

"Then you won't mind doing an exercise for me?"

He shrugs the question.

"I need you to record exactly what happened when he showed up in the garage. Use what is known as the D.E.A. formula- describe it like a crime scene first, then express what it made you feel, then assert how you wanted him to have reacted- whether he did or didn't do so doesn't matter."

"Sure…but why?"

"He needs to hear it. And, if he trusts you to hear his version, then you both will begin to realise something important about each other."

"Um…okay, if you think it will help."

"There's more. I need from you an object, a sort of memento that you know has meaning for Sherlock. I want to use it during the guided imagery sessions with him."

He rubs his chin. "Baker Street's full of stuff. Sort of like…trophies from his past cases. But, you're looking for something really  _important_  to him?"

She wonders if he will know what might qualify. "It needs to have emotional meaning, as well as being something that would recall important memories."

He smiles. "Then I have just the thing. Only it's not a thing, it's a  _who_."

She isn't sure she follows the thought, and her confusion must be showing.

His smile broadens.

"John Watson."


	13. The Ottoman Box

After she left New Scotland Yard, Diane's next port of call is a GP surgery in south London. Yesterday evening, when she had called the number that George Hayter gave her, she got Mary Morstan on the phone. John was out- "getting some air". He'd left his phone behind because he wanted some "peace and quiet."

Mary had seemed delighted to hear from her, enough for Diane to start the conversation with her, too. "I'm going to assume that George has been keeping John in the picture about Sherlock, but has he passed on anything to you?"

"Yes- a bit, but not enough. Are you going to involve John in Sherlock's therapy?"

"That's the plan. I want to come see him- and you- tomorrow. I was hoping to catch you at the clinic over your lunch break. Is that okay?"

There had been a sigh of relief on the other end of the line. "Good. John needs that. Probably more than Sherlock does."

That had intrigued the therapist. "Why?"

After a pause, followed by a sigh, Mary had explained. "I don't want to betray any confidences, but I'm worried about John. The more he worries about Sherlock, the worse he gets."

"Worse? In what way?"

"He's…well, it's no secret; George Hayter knows, because he's asked me about it, so I will assume that he's told you. John has PTSD. Or, rather he did- before he met Sherlock- from when he got shot in Afghanistan. It was bad enough to give him a psychosomatic limp. Apparently, that went the first night he moved into Baker Street. Then after Sherlock's death- disappearance- whatever- the nightmares returned with a vengeance. I've known John for almost a year now, and they still happened occasionally, but had been easing off."

"And since Sherlock's return?"

There had been a pause, then another sigh. "Since Sherlock's breakdown at the gym, over the past two weeks the nightmares are worse, and now the limp is back. He's pretty angry about it, too, so be careful. He really doesn't like talking about it. He's worried that if Mycroft Holmes thinks he's not stable, he won't let him near Sherlock again. And he  _wants_  that, so please tell me that you aren't going to block him from seeing Sherlock."

Diane had decided she might well have an ally in Mary. "I think you should know that when I mentioned to Sherlock that I'd be talking to John, he said I had to include you, too. He's aware that you have first call on John."

That had brought a rueful chuckle. "As if. I know that the two of them were close. And I know how Sherlock's supposed death affected John. I  _want_  the two of them to patch things up. John will be better for it, and so will Sherlock. This isn't a competition; we both love John. How can we get them together again?"

When Diane had hung up, she had realised that in Mary, she had not just an ally, but someone who could prove crucial.

oOo

Sixteen hours after that telephone call, however, Diane is beginning to feel the need for that ally. She had agreed to meet them in John's office at the clinic, hoping that the familiar ground would make him and Mary feel more comfortable seeing her. But already the arrangement isn't quite what she expected. After greeting her at the reception desk, and taking her to the door of an office, John's fiancé had said quietly, "I'm on my way out. It's important that you see him on his own to start with. If he's willing to get me involved later, then I am more than happy to. Good luck."

That whispered of discussions and disagreements between John and Mary about this visit, but Diane had no time to probe before the short blonde woman had opened the office door and announced, "Miss Goodliffe to see you, John."

The doctor's initial response to her is cool and wary, yet somehow…determined to see her, too.  _Mixed signals._  She decides she will need to tread carefully.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Doctor Watson. I understand that George Hayter has been briefing you about what's happened over the past four days."

That gets a stiff nod, but nothing more. Diane is picking up some non-verbal clues. John is sitting in the chair at his desk; she is offered the chair used by patients. His arms are out on the arms of the chair, but he looks far from relaxed.

She gives him a gentle smile. "You don't like therapists much, do you?"

"Not much."

"Why's that?"

He waves his left hand a little dismissively. "Been there, done that, got the scars to prove it."

"And it hasn't helped?"

"Not much."

"You're a medical professional; surely you have seen how it can help."

"Of course. Lots of people benefit. I just don't happen to be one of them. And I don't think Sherlock is either."

She nods. "It might surprise you, but I agree with you there. I've waded through the same pile of medical files that Esther Cohen says you have, too. The story of his experiences doesn't give one much encouragement."

"So, why do you think you will make a difference?"

That might be a rather hostile question, but the tone in which it is delivered is tempered with what Diane thinks might be a tinge of hope.

"Because unlike most of his previous experiences, I'm not telling him how to change his behaviour. It isn't up to me. If I can help him find the way to do it for himself, then it's more likely to work. But that needs the support of the people who care about him.  _You_  need to change your behaviour too to be able to help- and I can guide you in the best way to do that."

Now John is frowning, "So, you're saying  _I_  need to go through some form of therapy before I'm allowed to see Sherlock?" There is real anger in his tone.

"No, I'm not picking on you- Lestrade and Mrs Hudson are signed up already. You won't be alone in feeling uncomfortable about this. Tonight I see Sherlock's brother."

His eyes widen. "You are suggesting  _therapy_  for Mycroft Holmes?"

When she nods, John starts to laugh. "If you want my opinion…"

Before he can finish that sentence, she cuts him off. "Actually, I don't. That might sound odd, but I try to meet everyone- you included- without having too many preconceived ideas about them. What other people think can get in the way."

He shakes his head in some amazement. ""Well, don't blame me; I tried to warn you."

To force the pace, to draw him in, she leans forward. "I'm going to assume that whatever you think about me, or therapy in general, you want this to make a difference to Sherlock." She makes it a statement, not a question.

"Of course."

"Then everyone, you included, has to agree to get some guidance on how to get involved. It's not exactly  _therapy but_ I'm not going to lie- it might ask you to confront some of your own demons, things that Sherlock provokes in other people- sometimes intentionally, but often not. What I need to know is whether you are prepared to do that, too, Doctor Watson."

His face isn't telling her much about what he is thinking. "If you are seriously proposing a therapeutic relationship, then you'd better start calling me John, Miss Goodliffe."

"Then you can call me Diane." She welcomes that peace offering from him, but wants desperately to get him to relax; the tension in the room is almost tangible. She softens her gaze, realising that it isn't just Sherlock that has been somehow blindsided by what has happened since he returned- there is another casualty, too, and she is looking at him. Gently now, she says "we're on the same side here, John. Both you and I want him to get better- and that means dealing with whatever happened to him while he was away. All of you need to learn new ways to help him."

There is a long silence, but finally he gives a nod. "So, how does this work?"

She smirks, and then chuckles.

He looks a bit confused, and then the wariness returns. "What's so funny?"

Still chuckling, Diane manages to get out, "That's what Sherlock said- he used the exact same words."

"I'd say great minds think alike, but that isn't true. I'm not as smart as he is. It took me a lot longer to realise that I wasn't the only one wounded by what happened on that roof."

The smile doesn't leave her lips. "You've had time to think things over; that's good. So, what do you want from him now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. What do you want from Sherlock now? Do you want an apology, do you want him to piss off, do you want him to keep in touch; what does the future look like between you two?"

The bluntness of the question appears to startle him, but then he gives her a steady look. "I want him to get past the drugs, get over what drove him to use again. I want him to stop pushing me away. I want to know why the hell he's  _deleted_  me. Above all else, I have to understand why he took a knife to his own throat, saying he thought it would have been better for me if he hadn't come back. Nothing could be further from the truth. I want my best friend back, and I want to help him get better."

"So do we all, John. If everyone else I've spoken to so far is to be believed,  _you_  are more likely than anyone else when it comes to playing a role in that recovery. But since you also seem to be a trigger for some of the PTSD episodes he's had, we have to tread carefully. And…" she looks pointedly at the crutch that was now leaning up against the side of the desk "…we need to be careful to avoid triggering more problems for you, too."

He follows her line of sight, and winced. "Yeah, well, I think I can deal with my own issues if I'm not stuck out here, wondering what the hell is going on in there with Sherlock."

She nods encouragingly. "Then would you be prepared to come to Hartswood for Christmas? You and Mary for a couple of days, starting tomorrow. We can see how it's going on Boxing Day. Mary said your schedules at the clinic can cope; you aren't on again until the 29th."

For the first time since she'd walked into the room, John smiles.

"Yeah, that would be good." Then he seems to have another thought. “Sherlock  _hates_  Christmas. Just to warn you."

"Useful to know. I'll restrain my enthusiasm for fairy lights and tinsel. In any case, this is a  _working_  holiday. Before you arrive tomorrow afternoon, I need you to do some homework."

He lifts his chin a bit.

. _A bit of resistance there._ Undaunted, she explains. "I need you to record on your phone your answers on three exercises." She fishes in her handbag and pulls out a folded sheet of paper, handing it over. "I've typed it out there, but it's straightforward. Begin by describing your first meeting with Sherlock- just the facts first, please. Then, go on to express your emotional reaction to that meeting."

She watches his eyes tighten a bit. "Yes, I know,  _emotions._  Not something a lot of British males like to talk about. If you think it's hard for you, imagine what it is for Sherlock. But he is trying to do it, so I would be grateful if you would, too."

"Why?"

"Because he needs to stop taking what he calls his "transport" for granted and that means getting in touch with his emotions, even if he has to take a taxi ride to find them because they are so far away. This exercise is designed to get him to verbalise things he never does, for fear of people's reactions. And if he's going to do it, so should you."

From the look on John's face, she starts to think that it might be just as hard for him as it will be for Sherlock. "Before you say anything, I know it's not easy. Start by trying to remember your first meeting him the way you experienced it then- not knowing what you know about him now. And once that's done, pick another occasion- your choice- of an event that happened between you two, and do the same thing- describe it factually, then express what you felt emotionally at the time. The key is honesty."

"What's this supposed to do?" The question is thick with suspicion.

"That's up to you and Sherlock. Ideally, you swap recordings. For him, for anyone on the Spectrum, it is very, very hard to say things face-to-face. You may feel the same. Say it to the recorder. He's having to do this for Mrs Hudson, Greg Lestrade and Mycroft, too."

"You think you can talk  _Mycroft_  into playing along?"

"Want to bet?"

"No, because I would have bet that Sherlock would have chased you out the door within minutes of meeting you. And yet here you are."

"You underestimate how distressed he is that he's having these episodes, and how much he wants to get better. I'm just helping to give some structure to that motivation."

She leans forward, and tries to use her voice to pull him in. "It's not going to be easy for you, John. You'll have to be motivated, especially when I tell you about the last of the three exercises. You need to talk about what happened when you first saw him after he returned from being dead. After describing it and expressing what you felt, I want you to add a third thing; you need to  _assert_ \- record what you  _wanted_  him to do or say, as opposed to what actually happened."

He leans back in his chair, a frown furrowing the lines on his face. "Going over old wounds- how the hell is that going to help? We've got to move on."

"You both need to see it from the other person's point of view. Once that happens, you can move on."

She steadies him with a look. "If you are going to play an integral part in his recovery- and I want you to do so- then you have to be honest, with yourself and with him. Now that you're living with Mary and planning to get married, things between you and Sherlock will be different. You won't be there in Baker Street. That means he has to learn more resiliency about being on his own."

"He's spent the last two years on his own."

"And look how that turned out for him."

The look on his face tells her that John concedes the point.

"To help him now, I'm teaching him guided imagery, which gives him new tools to cope better on his own. No matter who cares about him- you included- no one is going to be living at Baker Street the way you did. To help him cope with that, I need from you an object, something that will remind him of you, of the things that you've shared, of what you do for him, what you would say if you were standing right in front of him."

She gives him time to think about it. Then John gets up and uses his crutch to limp across the room. He pulls out a set of keys and opens a filing cabinet drawer and retrieves an A4 envelope.

When he returns to his seat he pulls something out of it. "Give him this." John hands over a wooden box, inlaid with silver, about nine inches long, less than four inches wide, with a domed top.

As she turns it over in her hands, Diane thinks it might be Middle Eastern or North African in origin; the filigree work had an Islamic feel to it.

"It's Ottoman- antique; he said he got it when he was twenty. Open it up."

She slips the little silver catch aside and opens the domed silver top. Nestling in faded purple velvet is a glass syringe. She notes the glass capsule of needles, the short handled silver spoon, a darker purple velvet cord with a wooden slide toggle- a tourniquet. Her eyebrows rise, and she looks back at the doctor who had handed it to her.

"You're  _sure_  about this?" The idea of giving a drug addict equipment like this doesn't feel right.

"Yes." It is said with an almost military firmness. “It’s his.”

"Want to tell me how you got it?"

His eyes lose the glare and become sad. "Make him tell you how and why he gave it to me. It might help him remember…lots of things."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: If you want to know how John got the case in the first place, read Fallen Angel, Chapters ten and eleven.


	14. Mrs Hudson

"Is it working?" The microphone has caught the sound of fumbling as the recorder was picked up. Sherlock can visualise the scene as she had brought it up close enough to read the digital counter. She is still vain enough to not use her reading glasses as often as she needed to. Then he hears a bit of a thud as she put it back down on the table. Then there was a nervous sort of clearing of her throat.

"I'm not really sure why this has to be recorded. I'm more than happy just to say all this to Sherlock."

He sighs. She really doesn't understand that if she'd tried to do so face-to-face, he'd probably have filtered her out. As much as he had come to rely on her presence at Baker Street, it wasn't for the conversation.

"Right." She sounds a little self-conscious, but determined. "That nice therapist wants me to tell you about the first time we met. I'm certain you remember that; you remember  _everything_ , even to the point of telling me when I've moved your things even a millimetre when I'm dusting. So, as your memory is that good, you don't need me to remind you that it was in 1998, and it was on a bus- one of those horrid Greyhound things. I got on in Savannah, Georgia, heading to Miami. I'm not actually sure I remember where you got on…" Her voice lost steam as he imagined her floundering around trying to squeeze the memory out of some dusty, cobwebbed cupboard in her kitchen. "…but it was definitely before me. You were asleep, if I recall, although how you could sleep through all that racket and the movement of the bus, well it was enough to give me motion sickness even before we pulled out of the bus station."

Sherlock had not been asleep, just keeping his eyes closed. There were advantages to taking a bus. To start with, he could pay cash, so his credit card details wouldn't show up as being anywhere other than Manhattan when his brother checked to see he was still in New York. It had not been easy to convince Mycroft to let him spend the summer hols in the USA. He'd managed to get an internship at Columbia University, promising to spend the entire time on campus, working at the chemistry research project on the effects of RNA gene mutations in mitochondrial DNA.

His argument to brother was designed to appeal to the man’s sense of propriety: "I've been recommended by my biochemistry lecturer at Cambridge; it would be churlish to turn it down." After being burdened with many tedious fraternal lectures about keeping out of trouble, he'd been allowed to come. Little did his brother know that he'd finished the work he was expected to do within six weeks, leaving him free to travel on his own for the remaining seven weeks. He'd bribed his lab partner into sending emails from his university account, a series of boring updates checking in with Big Brother to reassure him that Sherlock's nose was pressed firmly to the proverbial grindstone. While he was away from New York, he had called and got the graduate student to read him the emails in response, and then type his reply. The six hour time difference had helped him dodge the need for actual calls. He had kept his phone off, and only responded to Mycroft when he was able to use the IP routing system that another lab technician had figured out. Useful- the tech was a hacker in his spare time, and guaranteed it was fool-proof. "Just ring this number first, and then the number you want to call; it routes everything through the cell mast nearest to Columbia." Sherlock had decided he needed to find someone similar when he got back to Cambridge to teach him how to do it himself; being able to fool his brother into thinking he was somewhere he wasn't sounded like an invaluable life skill, and far more useful than most of the drivel he was learning.

The other advantage of bus travel was that once out of the stations, the lights in the bus were turned off, and he could sleep undisturbed. Greyhound busses were the transport of the poor in the USA, and stopped at quite a few places down the Eastern seaboard. Sherlock had gone through a series of towns whose names he immediately deleted: New Brunswick, Trenton, Philadelphia,Wilmington, Washington DC. To hide his trail a bit more, he had not bought a through ticket, but transferred to a new bus every so often, buying a ticket with cash. This bus he'd picked up in Richmond, then endured stops at Fayetteville and Walterborough, before Savannah. Sherlock got off just often enough to stretch his legs, head into the station's loos where he would top up the cocaine with another injection. The trip to Miami was proving to be quite enjoyable until Waynesborough when a rather obnoxious passenger got on; he played his Walkman so loud that Sherlock could hear the annoying rap music that was loud enough for the tinny hissing to be heard two rows away.

The woman who got on last at Savannah struggled; she had been carrying a large over the shoulder bag and some shopping bags from high end fashion stores. Well dressed, late middle-aged, wearing a bit of make-up- and so not the type who usually took a bus. She had seemed flustered. There had been almost no seats left on the bus- just the back bench- notoriously sick-making, and so avoided by the seasoned travellers. She’d sidled down the aisle and stopped at the seat two rows in front of where Sherlock was pretending to sleep. The window seat was occupied by Walkman man- a very large Latino who was wearing expensive trainers, low slung cargo pants and a white tee shirt stained with food, which he enthusiastically munched. He was plugged in with expensive earphones, and occasionally would sing along hideously out of tune. The accented voice had been Cuban, as much as Sherlock's ear could tell over the vocal massacre of a popular rap track. The gold chains and prison tatts were a giveaway sign of something else; this was a gang member and the other passengers had given him a wide berth. He'd put his backpack of CDs and snacks on the seat next to him. Sherlock had wondered if there was a gun in there too. He'd been slightly amazed at the number of guns in America- being so available and so obvious was a shock.  _Cowboys, indeed._  Despite the bus being full, no one had dared ask Walkman guy to move his stuff off the seat.

"Excuse me, young man. Could you please remove your things and let me sit down?"

Sherlock had opened his eyes properly. It had been almost two months since he'd heard a British accent, and hers stood out- East End. Not cockney  _per se_ , probably born somewhere in the northern Home Counties before moving to East London. Working class, but with some education. He noted the wedding ring and the expensive earrings.

There had been no response from the gang man. He had his raybans on and was moving to the beat of his music.

The woman had put her bags down on the floor and tapped him on the shoulder. "I said, excuse me, but I would like to sit down."

" _Mama la pinga_." This had been growled, as the shades were pulled up and the man took a good look at her.

Sherlock winced.

Unmoved by the curse, the woman just continued. "I'm sorry, but I don't speak Spanish. Oh lord I hope you do understand English, as I've just had a monstrously bad day. My car broke down and I have to get back to Miami tonight. So, please just put your things in your lap and let me sit down."

The bus was now pulling away from the station, and when it took a sharp turn to re-join the main road, she lurched and half fell against the seat.

" _Piérdete, puta sucia_." This time, he said it with enough menace to communicate his meaning, even if the woman didn't speak Spanish. Startled, she regained her balance and responded. "There's no need to be rude, young man. I paid a fare just like you did, so unless you can produce another ticket for that seat, I intend taking it."

Sherlock had admired her bravery, if not her intelligence. A quick squint down the aisle behind her showed him that the driver was studiously ignoring the confrontation. He had prevaricated. On the one hand, he didn't want to get involved. On the other hand, the guy was a dickhead and his music and munching had annoyed Sherlock.

He got up and stretched, limbering up his neck muscles. Looking out at the lawn beside Hartwood House, he remembers what happened next, as Mrs Hudson’s recorded voice provides the soundtrack.

"Well, I don't know what he said, do I? I don't speak Spanish… or Cuban, for that matter- they're not exactly the same. Whatever it was, the rude boy just got up and went to the back of the bus, and I had a delightful journey."

Then he hears her giggle. "I wished I did speak Spanish, because whatever was said, that fellow went beetroot red with embarrassment and wouldn't even  _look_  at me. He just scuttled off to the back of the bus. When we stopped at Jacksonville, there was a layover for a driver change, and I bought the lad who rescued me a breakfast, insisted on it, in fact. He looked so thin."

Sherlock grimaces. Mrs Hudson is always going on about his eating.

"Over American pancakes and maple syrup, I introduced myself and was delighted to learn that he was English- posh too; I could tell from his accent. He hadn't said a word in English on the bus, just the Spanish. Appearances are so deceiving. Anyway, we got to talking…"

Sherlock smirks at the memory. She had done all the talking that day- all about her husband, Frank, and how he'd moved to Miami and she didn't really like it much- too hot, she got sunburned, and he was never around these days, so she was bored and a bit miserable. He'd deduced that there was more to it than boredom; the carefully applied make-up could not quite hide from his eyes the fading bruises, so battered as well as bored. In the end she'd given him her address, and told him to "look me up sometime; I'll take you to tea in Coral Gables. I'm in need of cheering up these days." She knew a tea shop there that sold proper Twinings teas, even had crumpets. He hadn't explain to her that the reason he wanted to go to Miami had nothing to do with tea. He had been after another kind of stimulant. He'd taken the slip of paper on it with her phone number and stuffed it in a pocket, knowing he'd never make contact with her again.

oOo

Martha Hudson pushes the pause symbol. She's come to spend Christmas with her sister. While her sister is off to midnight mass, Martha has her feet up and brings her mobile phone out of her handbag. That nice woman therapist has sent her Sherlock's version of their meeting, which she said he had agreed to send her. In the two minutes she'd just listened to, he had given the dry facts of their first meeting. In his version, he'd translated what that rude boy had said, and it wasn't polite. But, then she'd known that much from the tone at the time; just wasn't going to be pushed around by someone who wasn't even half her age. She'd wanted to shame the young man into respecting her, but it hadn't worked. Until Sherlock came up the aisle and leaned over to whisper something in the man's ear.

Thumbing the play icon, she hears him resume.

"I told the fat idiot that you were the English nanny working for Chris Paciello, a South Beach nightclub owner famous for his close connections with the Bensonhurst Mafia and the Colombo crime family. No Miami gang member would dare risk insulting that crew. And a  _nanny_ …" There was a snort that she recognised. "Americans- even gang members- all watched Mary Poppins as kids."

She starts to giggle. That was Sherlock all over. Even then. When the skinny teenager showed up at her rented house in Deland, South Miami, two weeks later, she'd been surprised, but one look was enough for her to take him in. He'd been beaten up- badly- and was high, as well. He said all he wanted was a safe place to crash. His wallet and backpack had been stolen; only his passport tucked into his underpants had escaped. He couldn't afford a hotel, nor could he go to a hospital because his drug use would be reported, and he had to stay off the police register or his brother would force him to return home immediately.

She'd taken him in and, as a result, he'd been there three nights later when Frank finally came home, wearing a bloodied shirt of his own. Only his was covered in the blood of the two undercover policemen. When she tried to convince Frank that it was really time to fold up his drug business and move back to London into something legitimate, he'd disagreed, and she told him that she'd had enough. For years, she'd been unhappy but been afraid to leave him. But, she couldn't turn a blind eye anymore to what he was doing, so she was going to leave him. Later, she realised her timing was poor- he'd already killed two people that night, and he started to take out his anger on her, too. She'd felt the back of his hand before, but not like this. The noise of their fight brought Sherlock out of the spare bedroom and once again, he rescued her. As cool as a cucumber, the teenager stood there with the little pistol taken from her handbag and told her husband that he had called the police. Frank did the sensible thing, and ran for his life. Three days later, he was arrested. Three weeks later, Sherlock had helped the police find the evidence they needed to convict him, and sentence him to be executed. While she mourned the death of a man she had once loved, she did not dispute the justice of it all. She was determined to move back to Britain and start over.

So far, Sherlock's recording covered none of this. Well, what did she expect? The therapist had said just to cover the facts of their first meeting. She listened as the baritone voice resumed.

"Now that the facts are known, I am supposed to express my…" there was a pause. "um… _feelings_  about it." He says the word as if it is slightly odious. "I didn't have any. I just wanted the git with the loud music to move, and this seemed a good opportunity to do so." There is another pause. "And it annoyed me, his attitude. I hate it when people are just gratuitously offensive to someone who doesn't deserve it. And you didn't. Not then." There is another pause, and then a quiet, "and certainly not later." A sigh, and then in a more upbeat tone, "It was, for the record, the start of my first  _case_. If I hadn't figured out that your husband was keeping the incriminating data in a sealed container inside their air-conditioner unit, the prosecution case would have failed. So, thank you, Mrs Hudson for playing a part in the launch of my career."

She smiles.  _I should have said a bigger thank you, Sherlock, in my recording._  But, in a funny way, she knows she didn't have to. And he didn't have to tell her about his feelings. She's always known. Actions always spoke louder than words.


	15. Into the Lion's Den

"Good Evening, Miss Goodliffe."

She's arrived on time, ringing the bell exactly at seven o'clock, because she senses it wouldn't do to keep Mycroft Holmes waiting. Communication had been via his PA when the meeting had been arranged. The voice on the other end of the phone had sounded efficient, but not apologetic when she said, "Mister Holmes will be in meetings this afternoon, and has an evening engagement that starts at eight. He has agreed to see you at 7pm for a half hour at his townhouse- Number Two, South Eaton Place. That's SW1, if you're taking a taxi."

The woman who has just greeted her on the doorstep is not in uniform, but it was clear she is a servant nevertheless, who smiles and introduces herself. "I'm Miss Foster, the housekeeper. Let me take your coat. I've been told to get you settled in the study, where there's a fire going. It will warm you up."

Stepping into the hallway, Diane takes off her gloves, stuffing them and her scarf into the coat pocket and then hands it over. She can’t stop from rubbing her hands-even through the gloves, she'd felt the London cold.

As she is led down the hall, Miss Foster explaines. "Mister Holmes will be down shortly. He asked me to extend his apologies and to explain that a meeting over-ran and he only got back a few minutes ago."

The wing-backed chair by the fire is inviting, and Diane sinks down into it gratefully.

"Can I offer you tea, coffee? Perhaps some wine, or another alcoholic drink?"

"No, thank you." Diane decides that she would prefer not to be interrupted by the housekeeper's return. Clearly, Mycroft Holmes is a busy man and she wants to maximise the time she has alone with him.

While she waits, she drinks in the sense of the room instead. It speaks to her of a man with both taste and money. The furniture is masculine, and the room wraps itself around her in a comfortable hug. There is a slightly indulgent, almost sensuous feel- warm fabric colours, the muted gleam of a brass table lamp on the desk, and soft lighting from two brass swing armed wall lights. The scent and feel of antique leather. The books on the shelves are not there for show; old editions in gilt lettered leather bindings jostle with new titles in dust covers. This isn't a designer's idea of what a gentleman's study is; it is the real thing. It tells of a man who knows what he likes, and has only those things around him. It is harmonious and ordered, raising a faint smile on Diane's face. It is the exact opposite of the chaos and exuberance of Sherlock's Baker Street room, crammed full of things that all screamed of back stories and hidden personal meanings, a veritable bazaar of stimulation.

Her eye is drawn to a framed oil painting over the mantelpiece- an unusual composition, a street scene, probably nineteenth century from the clothing worn by the figures. It is a rebellion or riot of some sort, barricades of rough stones, manned by peasants one of whom waved a red flag, facing a troop of soldiers. There is a haze of smoke, possibly from gunfire, in the background.

When she hears the door re-open behind her, she resists the temptation to turn and look.  _Mustn't appear too eager._  And yet she is curious, she has to admit to herself. Almost everyone's reaction to the idea of her meeting Mycroft Holmes had been a warning, and she wants to know why.

"Good evening, Miss Goodliffe."

As the mantle clock pings to announce the quarter hour, he comes to the chair beside hers, next to the fire. "Please, don't get up. I must apologise for the delay. Regrettable, I fear." They shake hands, and she recognises the professional shake of a man who wants to give nothing away- neither too firm nor too limp, just the right amount of pressure to make the social convention instantly irrelevant.

He must have seen her looking at the painting, because he turns his eyes to it now. "It's the Rue Soufflot in Paris, on the 25th of June 1848, painted by Horace Vernet, a relative of my mother.*"

She allows herself a smile. "Then a potent reminder for a keeper of civil society in England, as well as a family memento. How appropriate."

He takes his seat beside the fire.

"But, I didn't come to talk about art, Mister Holmes. Thank you for agreeing to meet. I am just pleased you could fit me in this evening; I know you are a busy man."

"May I offer you a drink? Some tea, or perhaps a brandy?"

"No, thank you; your housekeeper has already done so, but your time is limited, and I can get something later." She considers his black tie dinner jacket, the crisp white dress shirt. Immaculately dressed, but nothing like the striking impression of his brother. As tall… no, perhaps even a bit taller than Sherlock, but without the lithe, athletic energy of his brother. A more solid and commanding presence, as he sits down in the chair.

She realises he is doing his own assessment of her at exactly the same time. His gaze is more socially practiced than Sherlock's, whose looking can be so intense that it makes her feel as if she’s being pinned by the stare of a raptor. Yet there is more honesty in Sherlock's approach than in his brother's. He is using her visit to assess her suitability as Sherlock's therapist. There is  _judgment_  in that gaze of his.

Diane suddenly feels on the back foot, and uncertain how to proceed. The others had been more welcoming, been willing to help her, because they saw her as helping Sherlock. Mycroft Holmes is not in that camp. She has to think very quickly, if she is not going to lose the opportunity to engage him in her work.

"Mister Holmes, I'm going to assume that your experience with medical professionals trying to help your brother over his life time has been, by and large, a considerable disappointment to you."

That gets her a micro-expression- a tiny tip of the head in agreement.

"And you're probably wondering whether anything done by anyone such as me could be successful at this stage."

Another silent nod.

She suppresses the flutter of uncertainty in her abdomen. His nonverbal clues have confirmed her initial feeling. She is decidedly on trial.  _How does he do that?_ Diane realises that she had only seconds to decide. This might have to become a battlefield of wits.

With a smile, Diane decides to treat Mycroft Holmes as she had Sherlock- she opens herself to his scrutiny, and holds nothing aside.  _Recognise the reality; I am no threat to you or your brother._

This is greeted with a tiny tilt of his head and an arched eyebrow- an invitation of sorts.

She fires her first salvo. "Success depends on you."

"You overestimate my influence, Miss Goodliffe."

"It's not  _all_  down to you, Mister Holmes; but you and the others in Sherlock's life have to take a more active role in his recovery."

"And exactly how do you envisage this happening?" There is curiosity and suspicion in equal measure.

"Well, let's start by telling me how much you know about what's going on at Hartswood Manor." She leaves it as oblique as that. How he reacts will tell her something about him.

"Assume I am quite well informed, but not omniscient." He gives her a flicker of a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Then you  _know_  why I am here."

His finger taps the chair arm idly. "I am aware of your methods. You would not have been allowed to make contact with Sherlock if I didn't agree that it was time to try something new."

She notes the undertone of assumed responsibility for his brother's therapeutic choices. "And what do you understand my approach to be?"

The sceptical expression reappears.

She sticks to her guns. "It's always wise to check what someone's understanding is. No matter how well they think they might know second hand, it is not the same as being directly in contact."

"You've decided not to tackle the trauma yet, but that is a logical choice given how…fragile…his mind will be this close to withdrawal from the drugs. You are engaging in what is known in my line of work as 'confidence building measures'. I know that you are asking his little circle of friends to record their reactions to certain events, and for Sherlock to do the same, with a view to an exchange. The technique of distancing is well established for those with empathetic deficits. He may learn something valuable about why people are reacting the way they are to his return."

"It works  _both_  ways, you know. He has a right; others should know how he views things, too."

A slight tip of the head. Less than the acknowledgement she is hoping for. Diane decides that she will have to be brave. "And that includes you, too."

"In what way?" There is a frown of suspicion in his expression now.

"John Watson, Mrs Hudson and the Detective Inspector are recording three exercises: the first time they met Sherlock, an occasion of their own choice that they shared with Sherlock, and then when they first saw him again, when he came back from the dead. He is doing the same, and the idea is to swap. You, too."

That makes him snort. "Whatever…insights might emerge from this little exercise with the others, I can assure you that it is pointless for Sherlock and me to do it."

"And why would you think that?"

He looks rather sternly at her. "My brother learned his powers of deduction from me. There is little that we cannot know about what the other is thinking just by looking."

"Thinking… ah, yes. But feeling? That's not so easy, is it?"

He doesn't answer.

She can’t let him get away with this. "It's important to his recovery."

"The idea of a 'first meeting' between us is ridiculous. Sherlock would not have conscious memory of his first sight of me. And I was seven at the time. No matter how precocious, I was still a child. And how on earth could I choose one event between us? There is a lifetime of those to draw on. In any case, he knows what I think. And I know what he does. So, it's pointless."

Given everything Diane has heard about the pivotal role that the man plays in his brother's life, she isn't about to let him excuse himself from this. "Reciprocal exchange is important. Let me record this conversation, and I promise to ask the same questions of him as I do of you."

"I expect you will get exactly the same reaction from my brother- this is a waste of time."

"Indulge me. In the next ten minutes, I can prove even to you that this is a worthwhile exercise. What have you got to lose? You said so yourself; time to try something different. If you don't like the way the conversation goes, then tell me to delete it and it won't be shared with Sherlock. "

Silence.

Finally, he shrugs, so Diane whips out her phone and set it to record.

She decides to go straight for the jugular. "Do you love your brother, Mister Holmes?"

He seems taken aback slightly by the directness of the question, but answers. "Yes, of course."

"Why?"

"Because he is my brother."

"No, sorry…that's not good enough. Try to explain it another way."

"I don't see the relevance of the question. Why does it matter how I describe it, Miss Goodliffe?"

"It does. You are the most significant person in your brother's life. If you can't explain the nature of your relationship, then how can you expect him to be able to?"

"Do I?" He lets his surprise show. "I've learned over the years to expect very little from him on that score. Whatever label is pinned to his behaviour, there are significant deficits in emotional regulation and attachment. He will agree with that assessment, by the way."

She gives him a knowing smile. "Then you've both learned the buzz words very well. They don't absolve you of the need to be honest with yourself. Why do you love your brother?"

There is a long pause. "Love that can be explained is not worthy of the word."

"That's no excuse for not trying."

"Really, this is…"

She finishes the sentence, "…necessary."

The expression on his face is a dismissal. "I remain unconvinced, especially if the object of the exercise is to reciprocate the process on his part. 'Love', according to Sherlock, is a 'chemical defect in the losing side', as he once commented in my hearing. Not about me, I hasten to add, but to a third party about that person's weakness. If Sherlock is asked the question, I can predict that he will find the concept of brotherly love risible. I am his 'arch enemy' these days."

She realised that, style aside, Mycroft is even better at deflection and emotional avoidance than Sherlock. The tinge of superiority and sarcasm is designed to make his opponents feel ever so put down and unworthy.

Diane decides it was time for her to play the ace up her sleeve. It had been given to her by both Greg Lestade and by George Hayter, who had seen the wounds that had accompanied Sherlock back to London. They both mentioned that Mycroft had played a role in getting his brother to London. A different tactic is needed, more of a flanking attack than a full-frontal assault.

Emboldened, she points out "That is your view; his might well be different. I agree that the idea of first meetings is a little pointless in your case, and picking something out of his childhood may open more questions than it solves, so I will make this easier for you. Just describe the circumstances and what you thought the first time you set eyes on him after the two year gap."

There is a momentary silence, as she watches him take cover behind the stone wall of his face. Not a trace of emotion is shown, and she realises that Sherlock's elder brother is in more control of his reactions than almost anyone she'd met. A useful tool given his mysterious role, but probably deeply unhelpful to his personal relationships.

"I am unable to discuss the details, for reasons that will have to remain unexplained."

An absolutely total deflection on the grounds of national security, but it is a move anticipated by Diane. "Oh, I'm not asking you to reveal state secrets, Mister Holmes. I know from others that it wasn't in the most…hospitable of places, and that he was rather in need of medical attention." She makes it opaque enough to indicate she knows more or less that Sherlock had been beaten, probably tortured somewhere in Eastern Europe, without giving too much away of the details that the Detective Inspector had given her.

"Then suffice to say that I was able to extract him from that situation and bring him back to London where he received medical attention."

A blunt rebuff, and an attempt to close down the conversation, but she needs to probe deeper. "Again, according to others the trauma flashbacks he has experienced since his return don't relate to this incident, but to another earlier event, in China."

He nods.

"And you don't know what that's all about." She makes it a statement, deepening her alto to drive home the point.

He nods again.

"That must be particularly  _galling_  for you, not knowing."

He gives a nonchalant shrug. "A by-product of the rules of non-engagement. Not my choice."

Behind the smokescreen, Diane senses he is waiting, observing, and she suddenly feels very aware that this conversation is far removed from the usual sort of therapeutic interaction with an ordinary family member. But, she is in no mood to surrender. Patiently now, in a tone that she knows will both irritate and provoke him, she repeats, "Tell me what you felt when you first saw him."

Silence. Then a deep breath. "I'm not sure I can put it into words."

There is a chink of honesty in that reply. More sympathetically, she repeats, "Try."

She catches another glimpse of hesitancy when he answers, "It's complicated, and trying to pick it apart to communicate in sequence could be misunderstood."

"With that caveat, then, make an attempt to explain."

Another sigh. "Relieved that he was alive. But, I was afraid for him. Horrified at the situation, the damage being inflicted. Worried about the consequences… And angry– all of this at the exact same time."

 _Finally!_ She controls her urge to smile. "Real emotion is always multifaceted. And not enough people are willing to explain the conflicting emotions. So, thank you for that honesty. What were you angry about? That someone had been hurting him?"

There is a snort of derision. "No,  _that_  was expected. I was angry at having to extricate him from…the place he was in. Actually, he was in better shape than I had anticipated. I was angry with him, for getting himself into that situation in the first place."

"Oh." She is surprised at that. "You thought it was his fault for being in need of rescue?"

Now his brow puzzled in confusion. "Yes, of course. My brother has problems with impulse control and risk assessment; he 'gets into difficulties' as a result. This is what I feared would happen, when he went off on this exercise." Mycroft stops, perhaps aware that he is revealing more than he should be.

Diane isn't about to let him off the hook. "Let me understand this. According to you, Sherlock knows you disapproved of his plan."

"Yes, he was and is  _very_  aware of that."

"So, your reunion- which involved you showing up to get him out of trouble- was a confirmation in your eyes of the reasons why you had objected?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell him that?"

"There was no need. He knows."

"Now? Or, are you saying he knew he'd end up in need of rescue, from the beginning?"

Now he draws a deep breath. "Sherlock knows now what I had tried to warn him of two years ago; this plan of his would exact too high a price."

"So, why do you think he did it?"

He scowls, but looks into the flames of the fire rather than answer immediately. Eventually, he responds, "It's best if you were to ask him that yourself."

"Then you admit that knowing his perspective on these events would be illuminating?"

"Perhaps, to him as well as to others; not just me. It might be interesting to hear his rationalisation of it."

It is grudging, but it is the acknowledgement that she has been looking for. His curiosity has overcome his suspicions.

"Good. I will ask him the same questions, and whether he will agree to swap versions. You might find the experience illuminating. Even people we think we know very well can sometimes surprise us, Mister Holmes."

That raises a smile, an almost wistful one. "Oh, I never said he doesn't surprise me. That's perhaps the defining characteristic of our relationship. For better and for worse, surprise has been the one constant."

She seizes the moment. "Another part of the exercise is for you to identify an object, something that he can use in a guided imagery session. Something that has meaning for you both."

He tilts his head back to look down his nose at her. "A list. Ask him if he bothered to keep a list this time." 

She is slightly thrown by his comment, but before she ask for clarification, there is a soft knock at the door.

"Come in."

Miss Foster appears at the entrance. "I am sorry to interrupt, sir. Stimpson has brought the car around to the front. He says any later, and the traffic means you will be late."

"Yes, thank you, Miss Foster. Tell him I am on my way."

She withdraws and Diane realises that she had only a few more moments before he would have to leave.

"I regret I cannot delay further, Miss Goodliffe. Duty calls; being late would be misunderstood as a diplomatic snub." He sits up in the chair.

She realises that he was probably happy to have the excuse to escape. Just time for another salvo.

"Before you go, there are two more things I need from you."

"Ask."

"I need you to come spend some time at Hartswood over the next three days."

He stands. "I can do that. In fact, both of those things. I will get my PA to discuss with you timings. Thank you, Miss Goodliffe. There is no need to leave immediately. Please do ask Miss Foster for that drink now."

Mycroft shakes hands. "I think you've earned it, don't you?"

Her smile follows him out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *the painting exists. It now hangs at the College of William & Mary in the USA. Worth googling. It is ACD canon compliant that the Holmes brothers are related to the Vernet painting family.


	16. John's Recordings - Part One

He is sitting in the drawing room of Hartswood Manor's so called "big house", the one that he and Mary had first been shown around by George Hayter only a fortnight before.  _Feels like a lifetime ago._ Mary is sitting across from him, her feet tucked up on the well-worn red velour covered chair. John is on the matching sofa, with his leg elevated. For some reason, that seems to ease the pain, although why it should defied explanation, given that it is psychosomatic and he damned well knows it, too.

George had picked them up from the station, drove them back to the Manor and made them feel welcome, settling them into the bedroom on the first floor of the big house. "I hope you don't mind. Diane believes that it is important to give everyone a bit of space. Sherlock's out at the moment- gone for a long walk up to Box Hill. But, he's agreed to let you hear his recordings, and he said specifically that he wants  _both_  of you to hear it at the same time. He's going to listen to yours when he gets back. Then Diane will drop by to see how you want to proceed, and do the same for Sherlock."

The two of them have just listened to the recording of Sherlock's description of his first meeting with John. Delivered in a dry monotone voice, it sounded like someone reading from a telephone book. Even so, John had learned two new things from it- first, that Sherlock had been forced into finding a lodger by both Lestrade and Mycroft, and that their motivations had not been about "sharing the rent"*. He wished he'd known that earlier.

The second thing he'd learned is that Sherlock had already interviewed more than twenty people on the phone, before meeting six of them face-to-face- and rejected them all as "too tedious for words." He hadn't known that fact. It made him wonder why he'd passed muster. He'd always assumed when Sherlock shouted to Mrs Hudson that he would take the flat that it was just because Sherlock couldn't find anyone else mad enough to consider it.

The value of an eidetic memory for this exercise had become obvious, as Sherlock recounted word for word their exchange in the lab.

Mary starts giggling when Sherlock started talking about John's "brother". He shushes her, saying that he is glad Sherlock is willing to be honest enough to admit that he'd got the gender of his sibling wrong.

The recording resumes. "Now I am supposed to explain- no,  _express_ \- my emotions about our first meeting. That's actually quite easy. I was relieved. Immensely. Getting a suitable flatmate meant I could move into Baker Street, and that was the condition imposed on me by Mycroft before I could resume my work with Lestrade. You were the first candidate I had met who was conceivable as a flatmate. You were not boring, not tedious, and quite interesting compared with the idiots I had already met and rejected. That initial deduction proved to be true over the course of your tenancy. In hindsight, I should have thanked Mike Stamford for making the connection and the introduction."

John finds himself recalling his own version of their first meeting, the one he'd recorded and given to Diane Goodliffe. He hadn't followed instructions exactly, just hit the record button and started talking, mixing in what he felt with the facts. The idea of separating them? Well, it just doesn't work; not for him. He'd always felt too self-conscious when therapists tried to get him to play these little games.

Back at their own flat, Mary had made him record his version yesterday. She kept prompting him to do it all afternoon, and he had kept procrastinating. He wanted to see Sherlock. Yes, of course, he did. But, the idea of having to put into words what he thought about the first time he met him, and then when he re-appeared at the restaurant- well, it was a huge obstacle. And how on earth was he supposed to choose another "significant event" between him and Sherlock to talk about? The most obvious one- what happened at St Barts when Sherlock jumped- is like an open wound. He just  _couldn't_  choose that one.

Finally, Mary had just forced him to sit on the sofa, had given him a cup of tea, told him to turn on his phone to record and then said, "Talk to me, John. Forget about the phone. Just tell me what happened the first time you met Sherlock. I want to know."

So, he had.** At the end of it, Mary eyes had been alight and her smile broad. "Yeah, Mike Stamford was right. He _is_ just like that. And I'm not surprised you were hooked. I would be, too."

oOo

Now the two of them are sitting in Hartswood Manor about to listen to the second of Sherlock's recordings, and John keeps wondering whether his second one will pass muster when Sherlock returns the favour. All the way down to Reigate, he'd been thinking and rethinking about his three recordings. He has no fears about the first one- their original first meeting. He feels comfortable about that one, and he figures that the therapist must have planned it that way. In that situation, everyone- Sherlock included- had come through the first contact to form a positive relationship. He does wonder about what Mycroft's will say, but Diane had made it clear that someone else's recordings were strictly private, between that person and Sherlock.

He worries about making his recordings in a different order- he's decided to do the reunion as his second entry. Would Sherlock be prepared to hear about John's reaction to his return? Should he have stuck to the proper order, and let his selection of the pool incident as the middle exercise lay the groundwork? Or is it right to get the apology out on the table first? He had fretted earlier as the train full of people going home for the Christmas holidays climbed up the North Downs before dropping into Reigate. Despite being the one with the crutch, he'd insisted on putting Mary in the one empty seat in the carriage, and had stood the whole way, squeezed in with the other shoppers, commuters and holiday travellers heading south. When he was stationary like this, his leg didn't bother him. But, Mary must have sensed his disquiet and kept patting his hand in reassurance. He had come to love her optimism, even if he didn't share it.

She insists that they take a break for a cup of tea before listening to Sherlock's second recording. While he watches her prepare the tea in the modern kitchen that feels so incongruous in the otherwise Jacobean house, she keeps the conversation going. "Are you still fretting about changing the order of your entries?"

He nods.

She gives him a reassuring smile. "It's better to get it done- out on the table; we both know it's important."

As if that makes it any easier.

By yesterday evening, he'd worked his courage up to the point of trying to record his second entry. He'd been so  _angry_  that night when Sherlock returned _._  John knows he has a temper, and it had been as if Sherlock had hit every single hot button on purpose, just driving him right over the brink. He did that, the idiot. When they'd lived together, John had gotten used to it, found ways to build a little time-out into their routines. His "getting some air" became short-hand for "You're being a wanker right now and I can't deal with this any longer before I lose my temper."

But, that night, in the shock of Sherlock's sudden reappearance, there had been nowhere to run -and he'd already been keyed up all day, in nervous anxiety about what Mary would say to his proposal. What happened if she said no? He'd been scared of the consequences of that- of being abandoned, rejected again just as he finally got up the courage to commit to someone, to lay himself open and vulnerable. He had been so on edge that when he'd finally realised that the annoying waiter with the fake French accent was actually an annoying git that he knew very well- it was just too much. A red haze had descended.

She hands him the tea. "If it's bothering you so much, just listen to it again. If you don't like it, then pull it. Sherlock isn't back yet; I'm sure Diane would let you change it." She pulls out her phone, swiped it a few times and then sets it down on the countertop next to the teapot.

"This is about the first time we saw each other after you returned from the dead."

John can’t help but hear the emphasis he had put on the last phrase, and worries. He hates listening his own recorded voice, but he forces himself to listen.

"I'm taking things out of order because you need to know something. And, sorry, I know that I'm not following the blasted  _describe_ and  _express_  routine, but that's just not working for me."

There is the sound of him drawing breath. "I need to say I'm sorry – for how I reacted that night. I was so angry, and I lost my temper. You deserve an explanation. Whatever it might have seemed to you at the time, I really was glad to know you were alive. I just couldn't get past the thought that you'd  _lied_  to me. All I could think of was that I'd been made a fool of- and in front of Mary, just as I was about to propose to her."

There is a half stifled laugh. "I always said you had atrocious timing…"

"You see, Sherlock, for the previous six months, I'd been telling her about you- how smart you were, how  _brilliant_  things had been together, and how much I missed you. Then you waltz in and tell me that it was all an elaborate hoax and I was just a hapless stooge in your great game against Moriarty. It made me feel… so small, so useless. I was embarrassed. And all that emotion I'd spent grieving for you just flipped over into anger that you'd made me look so stupid."

"Yeah, I know. I was thinking all about me. Sorry about that. Now that I've had time to properly think about it, I realise that you were right- I am an idiot." The recording caught him chuckling ruefully. "But then you always said I was, so this is me agreeing with you."

"I'm not going to re-hash the facts of what happened that might- I know your memory is better than any damn video recording. What you don't know is what I felt. So, I'm telling you now. At the time, I was angry. And relieved, too. But, at such a…I don't know what to call it except a  _primitive_  level. Deep down, instinctive, not rational at all… I was livid at you for leaving me behind. Of being shut out, of you thinking of me as being…I suppose the word is  _unworthy_  of being told what you were doing and why you were doing it. And realising that  _hurt._ "

John takes a deep breath, looking down at his tea, still startled by that revelation.

"Yeah, me- Mister Teflon. Jeez, Sherlock, over the years you've insulted nearly everything about me- from the speed of my typing to my mundane taste in television, and I never gave a damn, because I thought we connected better than that. All that huff and puff of yours was just…I don't know, maybe 'smokescreen' is the best way to describe it. You would shout at me, and I figured it was therapeutic for you. I'd shout back at you for leaving bloody fingers in the microwave  _again_ , and let off steam. We didn't need to  _talk_ ; it just worked.  _We_  worked. Or so I thought, until you jumped off a bloody roof and didn't leave a forwarding address."

At the time it was recorded, Mary had shot him a stern look at that comment, and his voice went on, a little amused. "Mary's reminding me to be nice. Okay, so here it is. I meant what I said- I forgive you. I understand now why you did it. Still don't give a damn  _how_ , though. Kind of irrelevant, and rehearsing that bit is just going to make me feel stupid for not being able to see it as the magic trick it was. So, I hope to God your version of this recording isn't going to be you crowing about the thirteen scenarios."

There was a brief pause on the recording. "So, basically, this is me asking you to forgive me, for being a plonker. I'm still angry. Only now it's not about being left behind. I'm angry at myself, that I may have ballsed this up so badly that you're not going to let me back in now that you're back. And I'm not talking about cases, damn you. You think that I'm some sort of adrenaline junkie who only hangs around you because I like to chase criminals. You said as much that night."

"I'm going to say this just once, and then we're done with it, alright? You know what I think about  _touchy-feely_  stuff." There was an intake of breath. "I value  _you._  All six feet of daft, irritating genius, every brilliant bloody bit of you, even the things that drive me and everyone else wild with annoyance. It's not the party tricks you use to impress other people, it's not about the Mind Palace. It's the whole package. You don't have to be or do anything  _heroic_ , damn you, for me to care. You were the most important person in my life."

"So, that's what's pissing me off now. You pushing me away, somehow thinking this distance is something I want? You're  _wrong_. You once said to me that you always get something wrong; well, this is it.  _You're wrong_.I would not be better off if you'd never come back. That's just so wrong it's laughable. So, stop punishing me for being an idiot and let's try to get this sorted. Please."

John reaches over and switches the phone off. Then he sits back on the kitchen stool and looks out the window. The light is starting to fade. He wondered whether Sherlock is on his way back now to the Manor from his strategic retreat up Box Hill.  _God knows what he will make of all this_.

"John." Mary's voice is soft, gentle. "Don't you dare have second thoughts and erase it. If that recording doesn't do the trick, he's the bigger idiot."

A faint smile appears on John's lips, but his eyes are still sad.

She continues, "And if he doesn't forgive you, I'll talk him around, I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In the Got My Eye on You series, **Third Party **explains just why Lestrade and Mycroft conspired to make Sherlock take a flatmate for Baker Street.  
>  **The recording of John's initial reaction to his first meeting with Sherlock is already amongst my stories. Check out Ex Files, the chapter titled, Expect****


	17. Sherlock's Second Recording to John

"I'm taking liberties, changing the order of the exercises." The baritone on the recording sounds a little hesitant to John's practiced ear.

"But, they say it's better to know the final destination before the beginning of the journey. So, I will cover what happened at the restaurant when I first saw John again, seven weeks ago. If that causes any issues, just fast forward this to where the digital counter reads twenty four minutes and seven seconds, and you will reach my choice of an instance that John and I shared between our first meeting and the…um, reunion." He seemed to have hesitated before settling on that word.

"For that exercise, I've chosen our first meeting with James Moriarty, because it was, well…the beginning of the end. You choose the order in which you listen."

There is a pause, and Mary looks across the room at John. "I'd say that's quite a coincidence that you  _both_  swapped the order, and you  _both_  chose the same event as your second entry."

John puffs his cheeks out and looks up at the ornate Jacobean plaster work on the ceiling. "Not really. It was kind of turning point, for both of us."

After a pause, presumably to let John fast forward if he had wanted to, Sherlock's recording resumes. There is a slightly self-conscious clearing of throat. "So, when I returned to the UK at the end of October, Mycroft told me that you were no longer living at Baker Street. I had asked people to keep an eye on you while I was away. I was worried that if my cover was blown one of Moriarty's contingency plans would kick into effect, and you would be targeted. I had incentivised my brother to keep watch while I was away, telling him that it might be the easiest way of detecting that something had gone wrong on my mission- and it was one bit of surveillance that wouldn't get him into trouble for interfering."

This is a business voice of Sherlock- factual and to the point. "The file he passed me at the Diogenes Club had your location identified for that night- the Westmark restaurant. I decided that there was no time like the present to bring you up to speed. I didn't want my return to become public knowledge, but neither could I guarantee that someone might not recognise me. I wasn't about to skulk about London in disguise. So, that meant I needed to tell you as soon as possible, and it was best done 'in the flesh', so to speak, lest you believe that someone was trying an elaborate hoax."

Mary nods. "Sensible."

John shoots her a warning look.

"Well, it was. Really, John, you wouldn't have wanted to read about it in the newspapers, would you?"

He focuses on the recording.

"I decided to make it a public venue rather than your flat, because I thought it might…" There is the slightest of hesitations, but noticeable to both John and Mary, "…introduce some restraint in your reaction. Your natural reluctance to 'cause a scene' in a public place would make things…um, easier…for both of us. While you were still in a state of shock, I planned to tell you to keep the fact that I was back quiet for a while longer."

Mary giggles. "I'd always wondered about that."

"I arrived at the restaurant, but as soon as I saw you sitting alone at the table, I could see that you were in a state of nervous anxiety, and that made me change my plans. I appropriated a few props so I could approach without alerting you to who I was. I needed to gain more data to see what was making you so anxious. Given your state of unease, an oblique approach seemed wise, giving you time to recognise me."

Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Mary smirking.

"Unfortunately, you proved less than observant, John, and didn't realise who it was who handed you the wine list, despite my discrete attempts to draw your attention to my identity."

She giggles again. "Oh lord, I wish I had seen that."

He glares at her. "Shut up. I'm listening." It is said without venom, and then he adds, with a bit of irony. "At last, I'm going to actually listen to what he says, instead of losing my temper."

"I won't repeat the exchange of words. I certainly won't forget them. It was a mistake to go for the short version of 'Not dead', as my choice of words made you extremely angry. In my defence, I meant what I said; I was concerned that the shock might damage your heath. Your date, whom I now know as Mary Morstan, asked me whether I had any idea what I had done to you. She was angry and protective of you, which should have given you a clue about her eventual answer to the question you had intended to ask her. Really, John, even  _you_  could have deduced her acceptance. Why you had worked yourself up into such a state, I don't know."

John sees Mary biting her lip to stop the laugh, and just growls "Don't."

"I didn't answer her because I didn't know. I had no idea what I had done to you. How could I? I'd been away for two years. I could see however, that you were becoming more distressed. Well, angry more than distressed. It was at that stage that I realised I had better apologise before you lost your temper. I'm not sure you actually heard me, because you went on to ask me how I could let you grieve for two years. I was trying to understand that exaggeration, as the initial shock of my death would have faded quite quickly. The file told me that you had clearly moved on within a matter of months, leaving Baker Street, getting a new job and were now about to become engaged. Perhaps it was part of the reason why you found it so hard to recognise me, despite my rather obvious clues- out of sight is out of mind. I tried to defuse the situation, but to no avail. As it turned out, I shouldn't have been concerned about the shock, as you quite quickly demonstrated your robust health by knocking me to the floor with your hands around my throat."

John breathes out, and then in again. Then he reaches over and pauses the recording, looking down at the floor.

"John? Are you alright?"

When he can look up again, he just says, "He thought I had  _forgotten_ , that I'd gotten over it quickly." Then he remembers their first night, and Rachel. He mutters, "But that was  _ages_  ago, why would she still care? A bit not good, Sherlock." He shakes his head in disbelief.

"What?" Mary’s concern is evident. "Who's  _she_?"

“Nothing…it's just something he once said; a case, he didn't understand that someone would still be distressed sixteen years after her daughter was stillborn."

"So, you're saying he didn't understand that you would be so upset by his suicide?"

"Apparently not." That shocks him. How had he let Sherlock think that? No matter what social deficits the man might have, Sherlock must have known how much he cared about him. How much he still cares.

Mary pushes the button to play, and Sherlock's voice continues. "Understandably, the restaurant ejected the three of us, but only after I gave them money to pay for the damage, and your bill. Out on the pavement, you refused to look at me, but Mary insisted on the three of us walking down the road to the Italian trattoria, which had a table available." 

There is an audible intake of breath on the recording. "Where round two of the fight commenced. I tried to explain more about how my death had been faked, but you weren't interested in the details. In fact, all you wanted to know was how many other people were involved in the rooftop escape. I began to sense that telling you who knew just re-fuelled your anger. As I discovered when you came across the table and punched me, splitting my lip.

"We were ejected from that restaurant, too. You attempted to hail a taxi to leave with Mary, but were unsuccessful in getting one to stop. That seemed to be a sore point with you, for some reason, as you turned and shouted at me that one thing you'd missed during my absence was my ability to get a cab driver to pay attention to you." There is a pause. "I was attempting to staunch the flow of blood, and offered no assistance- but really John, I didn't  _want_  you to go. After a few more fruitless attempts by you being ignored by passing cabs, all three of us were getting cold, so Mary intervened again and steered us into the Turkish kebab house where round three began.

"There's no point in recounting the exact conversation. I repeated the error of saying things that were obviously inflammatory in some way, and it ended as the others had, with you resorting to physical violence."

There is a pause. "John, there is something you should know. While I was away, I learned how to defend myself against people who wanted to kill me. I let you hit me. It seemed to make you feel better, and I trusted that you did not want to inflict lasting damage. So, I just…didn't fight back. After the head butt, however, I finally realised that I had better stop talking…I threw in the towel, so to speak."

There are a number of odd clicks on the recording that make Mary sit up. "Ooh- he's recorded something, a couple of times, and then erased it." She stops it, backs up and replays the clicks. "Three times."

"Sssh. Just listen." John wants to know what he is going to say.

The baritone that resumes has a different timbre to it. "I'm supposed to say now what I felt. The simplest answer is 'confused.' And then…." There is along pause. "I just didn't know what to say. You were so  _angry._  I didn't expect that. I was anxious about what you'd say. With hindsight, the French waiter routine was probably a bit…over the top and inappropriate."

John rolls his eyes. "You could say that again."

Now it is Mary's turn to shush him.

"That made me embarrassed…uh, ashamed actually that I hadn't really thought through the mechanics of or meeting. After being so meticulous in the planning of everything I did over the past two years, I just…didn't this time. When I got to the restaurant, I realised that walking up to you and pulling out a chair and saying "Hi, John" wasn't really going to work." There is a silence. Then a huff. "Once I got there, I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to say anything at all, and you'd…" There is a stutter, "…you'd tell me to piss off. Yes, you heard that right, me… _afraid._ "

There is a deep breath, audible on the recording. "So, I just…improvised." Another silence.

"John, you should have realised by now that when I get anxious I usually do something stupid. This was no exception. I have a bad habit. Well, Mycroft tells me it's a bad one… of trying to make a joke or say something funny…you know, to…to try to defuse the situation."

Mary looks at him with a question in her eyes, and John just rolls his eyes and nods, before muttering, "One of his less endearing qualities."

As if Sherlock has heard the snide comment, he resumes now in a slightly defensive tone. "Using laughter to deal with stress and tension has a biological basis, all about the rhythmical audible contractions of the diaphragm and respiratory system as a way of responding to stimuli. It's called  _gelotology_  and there is a large body of learned literature about the psychological and physiological effects of it."

John notes that as soon as Sherlock is on more familiar ground- the facts and scientific side of things, his fluency dramatically increases.

"You wouldn't be the first to accuse me of being childish, but before you do so, I can say in my defence that laughing is actually a complex brain process. The left side of the cortex of the forebrain has to analyse words needed to form the joke, before the frontal lobe takes over and anticipates the social emotional responses to the joke." There is the sound of a Sherlockian sniff on the recording. "According to Mycroft that's one area of my deficiency. Anyway, then the right hemisphere structures the concepts so people will 'get' the joke. Then the sensory processing area of the occipital lobe gets involved, and finally the motor responses are generated, and  _voila-_  laughter results."

"Of course, understanding humour isn't the same as getting the joke. Mycroft told me that I don't always laugh at the  _right_  places. I used to tell him that it's because I have a different sense of humour. But, uh…I guess the jokes I made about your moustache upset you and made you angry. It's just, well…it doesn't suit you, but I wasn't sure how to tell you that. That's probably why Mary was smart enough not to mention earlier the fact that she didn't like it either. She's much more socially adept than I am."

"If he thinks that I gave him a bloody nose over his comment about facial hair, I really will kill him."

There is another click. When Sherlock's voice resumes, it is more serious. "I realise that little diversion might be thought of as a form of avoidance. So, I will get to the point. I am sorry that I caused you so much distress by what I did- all of it, the plot, my inability to keep you away from having to witness it- I really did  _try_ John, but your taxi managed to get back to Barts faster than the calculated average for the traffic situation at that time of day. And I meant what I said- once I was away, there were so many times when I wanted to tell you. But, I couldn't- not without jeopardising your survival and mine, too. And I botched telling you about my return. Completely. Well, what do you expect? It's at times like these that you should argue with anyone saying I am a 'high functioning' sociopath, as clearly, I still get too many things wrong to have earned that label."

"With the benefit of hindsight, I realise it was naïve of me to assume that things would not have changed with you when I got back. Perhaps I am guilty of wishful thinking. It seemed preferable to the alternative." He stops. There is a long pause of silence, which lengthens.

John frowns. He felt like he was looking into the abyss. "Is that it?"

Mary glances at the recorder. "Wait…there must be more. We aren't at the twenty four minutes and seven seconds yet. He's just trying to get up the nerve to say something."

"The alternative…." Sherlock stops.

Another long pause.

"The most likely alternative was watching Moriarty kill you. Another alternative was taking you with me, and getting you killed along the way, which would have defeated the whole purpose. I'm not going to apologise for doing what I did to keep you alive and able to live a normal life. You can tell me to piss off now, and I will be glad that you are still alive and able to do just that. It's enough for me. And that's all I have to say about that." There is a click.

This time John does reach over and turns the device off.

"I need to think about that before going on to the last recording."

Silence falls. He feels Mary's eyes on him. He gets up and stretches. "I'm going to take a walk. In the direction of Box Hill. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not." Mary watches him leave the living room, hears John's firm steps in the hall and then a few moments later, the kitchen door shutting behind him. The whole time of his exiting the Manor and for several minutes after that, she keeps her eyes on the crutch that is still leaning up against the side of the sofa, where John has forgotten it.


	18. Box Hill

The view is amazing. To the south, he can see the countryside of Surrey and West Sussex- hedged fields, wooded copses, small villages. If he studiously ignores the blot on the landscape called Dorking, with its ugly suburban sprawl, he can enjoy it. On the southern horizon almost fifty kilometres away, the South Downs rise to block his view to the sea, bringing memories of a place he once called home. It is a winter scene, which appeals to his current mood. Leafless trees give a clearer view of the curve of the valley that the River Mole has carved out of the chalk hills, in its attempt to head north. This is a landscape as familiar to him as the streets of London.

Turning around, Sherlock knows that London lies twenty miles to the north. Too hazy today in that direction to really spot the details that his mind provides- the great arc of the M25 cutting a swathe of traffic through the countryside.

A female voice whispers inside his head, able to be heard above the sound of the wind.  _You're avoiding things. Stop procrastinating._

He ignores the Skull. This time, he is going to spend some time just enjoying the hill, instead of thinking of it simply as an obstacle on his path. The weather means few walkers are brave enough to climb the 224 meters in the cold. In summer, the zigzag road up the southern side of the escarpment would be heaving with cyclists pretending to be king of the mountains in some racing dream, but there is no sign of them today. Just as well, he wants the summit for himself.

Box Hill is the top of the western weald, and blocks the northward journey of the River Mole. Named as such because of the surprising number of mature box trees- a plant more often associated with neat clipped hedges, the wood was so hard that it had been prized by furniture makers- and tall specimens like these are very rare.

He's come up here to clear his mind and concentrate. As a crow flies, the distance is only ten kilometres to Hartswood, but his route had added another five because he had wanted to reach the hills quickly. That took him away from the River Mole. He’d gone almost due north from the manor house, skirting the edges of Reigate and then up onto the North Downs Way before turning west. The ridge walk had eased some of the kinks in his muscles that withdrawal always brings. The repetitive movement seems to have soothed his jangled nerves, and gives his pent-up energy something to do. He hates this stage of withdrawal. The physical pain is real, but he is able to do more than just survive; he is well enough now to resent it- a sign that the psychological effects are just starting to ramp up.

Now at the summit, he keeps his eyes on the view and his back to one of the ugliest eyesores he's seen- the radio mast festooned with a garland of mobile phone antennae. The noise of the wind is surprisingly loud, adding to the sensory blast. With a temperature just below freezing, the wind chill cuts though his scarf, gloves and Belstaff to shock his body. Yet, he welcomes how it demands that he focus on the here and now, rather than on what he's left behind at the manor.

He tries to empty his mind of everything but the  _now_ , calling on some breathing techniques learned in Tibet.

_It won't work; you're just wasting valuable thinking time._

He sighs. The Skull is right; she is performing her role as his conscience, his logical voice of reason. He knows that John and Mary will have already left London for Reigate and that when he gets back to the Manor, they will be there. The recording exercises had been straight-forward enough, and he has not minded doing them. The idea of them listening to his version of events doesn't bother him, either. But, last night the consequences of thinking over things had been dire. Twice he'd woken up in a deep panic, certain memories jarred loose from their shackles. His Mind Palace has dungeons where he imprisoned things- events, people, thoughts- that he didn't want to delete, but couldn't allow to run around free. At night, the sentry systems are weaker, and things slip their chains to cause havoc.

Sherlock had been glad that Diane wasn't at the manor when he left this morning; he’d been in no mood to be seen after his night wrestling with demons. She had spent the night up in London, and was supposed to be returning sometime this morning. In her absence yesterday, he'd carefully removed every listening device he could find in the middle house. That had given him some comfort that no one knew of his wretched wakefulness.

This morning well before first light, he'd gone through the house again, just to be sure his brother's goons had not tried to reinstate anything overnight.  _It isn't paranoid if the surveillance is real_ , he'd argued with the skull. She’d just stared unblinking, her disapproval hung in the air between them. He'd left the real skull on the mantelpiece above the fireplace in the living room. The virtual Skull seems to have taken up permanent residence on the lab bench in what is left of his Mind Palace- he really feels comfortable only in the single room now, which looks remarkably similar to Mike Stamford's Barts lab where he had first met John. Down the corridor, through a double set of locked electronic doors, he knows that the rest of his Palace is out of bounds. His swipe card has expired. He tries to forget the key pad code that will allow him to regain access. There are too many things in those rooms that he needs to forget. Especially things in the dungeons.

After the night he'd just had, he knows that whatever promises he made yesterday during the daylight would have to be set aside. He can no longer ignore the fact that what had happened in China has come dangerously close to happening again, for real this time, in London. Not once, but twice. The first time had come out of the blue, when he had pulled John from a bonfire set by someone whose identity he had yet to discover. The second time, when they'd been in the tube carriage assuming the worst, he'd had no one to blame but himself. His weakness had put John directly in harm's way. He'd tried to hide his horror behind a joke, but before he knew they could escape, his tears were real. His admonition to John-  _Be careful what you wish for -_ was aimed at himself, too. By wishing to have John with him again, his neediness has nearly killed the man he'd once called his only friend.

Sherlock decides that he will recruit Mary to help his argument. She will want her fiancé to stay alive. Really, her current tolerance of Sherlock's reappearance is quite remarkable. In his limited experience, women were more likely to fight anyone who detracted from the total devotion of their intended husbands. He has always assumed it was something biological- the need to strengthen the pair bonding before childbearing is simply too strong at an unconscious level to tolerate a third party.

Enough. He will explain it to John and say his goodbyes. No excuses this time- no fever, no drugs, no meltdown- just rational logic. The Skull has approved his decision. He'll survive this. And as a result, so would John.

Sherlock starts back down the hill.

oOo

Diane meets Sherlock at the Dolphin Inn south of Betchworth. When she had got back to the manor mid-morning, she learned that he had set out alone on his walk to Box Hill. An exchange of texts, and he agrees to meet at her at 2pm, at the 17th century tavern. It is only a hundred meters of diversion from the Mole.

"Sit down. Give yourself a chance to warm up."

“I don’t like pubs.”

“Why?”

He waves dismissively. “The clatter and clash, the press of people, the yeasty stench of beer. I can tolerate them for a case, but rarely enter one voluntarily.”

“Sherlock, look around you. On a weekday this close to Christmas, the locals in the village are busy elsewhere, and the place is nearly empty. Please sit down.”

He sits.

"Have you had anything to eat?"

He shakes his head.

"Right. I haven't, so stay here."

Diane goes to the counter, and orders something. She returns to their table with a half-pint of beer for herself and puts a pint glass in front of him. He eyes the clear liquid suspiciously.

"Relax; it's just water. The walk will have dehydrated you."

He takes a tentative sip, then he must have realised that the walk has made him thirsty, so continued.

"I have some news for you." She takes a swallow of the Hogsback traditional English ale, and stops talking long enough to savour it. She notes the deep golden colour and the scent of the malt and hops in the local brewery's beer. "I saw your brother last night."

Suspicion flares in his eyes. "And?"

"He agreed to one recording which I did then and there on my phone- the last exercise, what happened when you two met up again after your…" She seems unsure what to call it before settling for " …um, mission."

He snorts. "That sounds like something out of one of those silly Bond movies. I prefer to think of it as a  _sabbatical_."

She feels her eyes widen a little at his choice of word, but she continues, "It was a bit like pulling blood from a stone. But I did finally get honesty from him."

He doesn’t even try to stifle an outright laugh. "No, you didn't. My brother is genetically incapable of having a genuinely unguarded moment. He will have told you what he thinks I should hear."

"That may or may not be true. But, it doesn't apply to you.  _You_  can be as honest as you like in your recording. Use the truth to surprise him." She takes another sip. "And he's agreed to come see you at Hartswood."

"When?"

She can hear the suspicion in that question.

"Aren't his goons doing a good enough job annoying me? Isn't his spy in the sky enough? Why does he want to inflict himself on me?"

"It means that you get to swap recordings. So, you will need to do yours tonight, if possible."

"With pleasure." This is almost snarled, showing her that whatever she might think, he is likely to use the opportunity to tell Mycroft to piss off.

The barman arrives at their table, carrying two bowls of soup and a basket of fresh brown bread.

"What's this?" Sherlock eyes the bowl as if it contained a poison.

"Turkey broth. Plain, simple, nutritious, and you'll be able to keep this down better than most food at this stage. They've got a full house here booked for Christmas lunch and are using this as stock for the gravy."

He sniffs. "I'm not hungry."

"That's probably because you've spent too much time hugging a toilet bowl over the past week. Time to move on, Sherlock; let me introduce you to a different bowl. This one's got soup in it. Make an effort." She butters a chunk of the farmhouse bread and lifts her own spoon. "Besides, you won't want to keel over in a dead faint when your brother shows up, will you? Just have some soup and give him less of an excuse to be patronising."

Her mentioning Mycroft provides some motivation. He tries a spoonful.

"I've brought you back another item. Like the skull, but this one comes from John."

That makes Sherlock put his spoon down. "What is it?"

"Nope…not until the bowl is half empty and you've had some bread."

He scowls. "I'm not a child; the tactic of bribery is…rather beneath you."

She tries to hide her smirk behind another mouthful of bread, but he still sees it.

As curious as he might be, Sherlock struggles to get the bowl down to the half-way stage. Eventually, he puts his spoon down. "Miss Goodliffe, you should know that opiate withdrawal always brings on nausea, and in my case, sensory processing disorder make dizziness and nausea even harder to cope with. I've done the best I can."

Wordlessly, she pulls out of her backpack a black velvet bag and slides it across the table.

Sherlock pushes his soup bowl aside in gratitude and reaches for it, loosening the cords and slipping the contents out of the bag. He doesn't open it, but puts the inlaid box down between them, eyeing it with some surprise. "Did he say  _why_  he was giving it back to me?"

She shakes her head. "He just said, 'Make him tell you how and why he gave it to me. It might help him remember a lot of things.'

"You've opened it?"

Diane nods. "I must admit it gave me a bit of a shock. I'm not sure I would have handed it to a man in the final stages of withdrawal, but then I'm not John Watson."

"No, you're not."

oOo

He eyes the box. It speaks to him of darkened rooms, and desperate times. Of cravings and the need to silence the voices in his brain _._  The hand-made silver inlaid box is Ottoman, nineteenth century, from a time when Constantinople was still the name of the city astride the straits between Asia and Europe. He'd been given the choice of any item in the antique shop, in gratitude for solving an early case. When his eye fell on this, he was smitten.

He realises that his breathing pattern has altered. Just the sight of it makes his arm itch, and the dopamine sing in his bloodstream.

 _Aren't you going to welcome me home?_  The Box speaks in a sultry voice redolent of tobacco, nicotine and other illicit substances.  _I am release.._. It is a male voice, faintly accented Arabic, with a smidgeon of Turkic roughness and Persian promise thrown in for good measure.

For a moment, the tavern fades from thought.

"Sherlock, are you feeling okay?" The concern in the therapist's words cuts through the miasma of his thoughts.

"Hmm? I'm fine."

"So, why do you think he's giving it back to you? Why now?"

Sherlock feigns nonchalance. "Probably some message about staying off the drugs. He's a bit puritanical about such things. In a moment of weakness, years ago I gave him the box for safekeeping, and he's probably happy to get rid of it now that he's setting up house with his fiancé. Wouldn't do for a practising GP to be caught with drug paraphernalia, would it?"

"Are you okay with keeping it now?"

"Yes, of course. It's just a souvenir. Don't worry; I'm not going to run off and try drugs again just because I've laid eyes on it."

"John thought you could use this, like the Skull, as a way of guiding your thoughts. Preferably, those should be about  _avoiding_  drug use. Do you want to use it that way?"

He shakes his head. "Not about drug use,  _per se_. It's always been a reminder that the benefits of using it may be pleasant, but they are only short-term. Solving the problem that creates the avoidance is…more healthy."

She beams, as he has expected she would. Really, he isn't about to tell her that he'd been using what she called guided imagery for years. It is the essence of his avatars, his search engine for the Mind Palace. It isn't wise to admit to a therapist that one regularly hears voices.

He decides that he's had enough of the pub. "Can we go now? The sun sets today at 3.56, and I'd rather not be walking in the dark."

Sherlock isn't the sort to walk and talk, so they hike back in silence from Bechtworth alongside the river. As the watery afternoon sunshine starts to slip away into early twilight, they reach the bridge at Birchett Copse, and turn away from the river, heading back through Pondfield Plantation across the fields towards Hartswood Manor.

As they come through the woods, in the fading light He can see a figure walking on the same path through the field towards them.

Slightly behind him, Diane asks, "Who would be starting a walk at this hour?" Sherlock stops. As she draws level with him, he puts out his right arm, to stop her. His eyes do not waver from the figure.

"It's John."

"Oh…he's supposed to be in the house, waiting."

"Stay here." With that command, Sherlock strides away.

The two men come face to face some thirty feet away from the therapist. In the half light, Sherlock looks down at John. Because he is facing east, he knows his face is in shadow, but John's is lit by the last rays of the sun, slipping under the clouds, just above the horizon. Because of that, Sherlock can see the worry etched in his expression.

"John." It still gives him pleasure, just the saying of that name in the presence of the actual person to whom it belongs. After so many Mind Palace dialogues in the early days of his time away, and then the silence after China, the real thing is infinitely better.  _Enjoy it now, it won't last_ , the Skull's voice whispers _._

"I'm sorry to intrude on your walk; I hope you don't mind." There is a bit of awkwardness and uncertainty in John's voice, which goes as he looks away from Sherlock to the therapist in the distance behind him. "I know that she's going to be pissed at me for breaking the rules, but I need to see you first."

For the first time since his return, Sherlock senses something different in John. It is as if his anger has evaporated. "You've listened to my recordings."

"The first two…in the order you delivered them, but not the third. Not yet, anyway. You haven't listened to any of mine?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Good. That's good. Then I can add something before you do."

"You could have recorded something more; she wouldn't have minded."

That makes John look back at him quickly. He makes a gesture with his hand between them. "Do you mind this?"

"Of course not." There is another awkward pause that makes Sherlock want to fill it. Then he says quietly, "Fire away."

He watches John almost flinch at that choice of words.

"Yeah, well that's part of the problem. I've been such an idiot that I don't doubt you think I'm about to clock you one here, too." He shifts on the balls of his feet, uncomfortable.

"Sherlock, I need to correct something. Something I might not have said clearly enough on the tape. And I need to, so there is no chance of you misunderstanding. You implied that I had…well, got over 'it' quickly, forgotten you, moved on, whatever…and that I was pissed off at you returning because you messed up my bended knee routine with Mary. Nothing could be further from the truth. You've drawn the wrong conclusion." A sad smile, then "you aren't infallible; you can get things wrong, you know. But, I'm the bigger idiot for not making things clearer."

A sudden gust of wind blasted out of the East forces John to hunch his shoulders, flips Sherlock's hair into his face, and makes them both bury their hands in their coat pockets. "Christ, that's coming straight out of Siberia," John mutters. "I'm going to make this quick before we both freeze to death." Then in a firmer voice, "I want you to stop pushing me away. I want…no, I  _need_  to fix things between us."

Sherlock is starting to feel anxious. He can sense the emotion in John; it isn't anger anymore, just distress. He doen't want to be the cause of that; it is important to part on good terms.

"Look, John, there's no need to feel…um, obligated or anything. I know I haven't been the most sensible since I got back, but that's not… it's not because of what you did or didn't do. I can manage…" he knows he is wittering, and ends rather lamely. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Nothing is coming out right. He doesn't want John to feel responsible in any way. He'd meant what he said in the recording; John being alive was enough.

Before the doctor can answer, Sherlock cuts him off. "And thanks for returning the box. You're right. Time I was responsible for my own decisions about it."

"Shut up, you idiot. That's not why I gave it to her to give to you. It's supposed to remind you of the fact that we solved that little problem by working  _together_. I seem to recall that you welcomed my help back then. Giving it to you now is to show you that I trust you to make the right decision on the drugs front. You don't need it for its original purpose, and I don't need to keep it away from you. Not now. We're going to do this together, because we both need to."

Another gust threatens to whip the last words away, but he doesn't stop. "For your information, I've been walking around the last week on that fucking crutch again. Your box, my crutch. Same problem. I was half way here on my way to meet you before I realised I'd left it behind. We're going to make this right, you and me- for both our sakes. Let your box and my crutch serve as reminders that we are better together than apart."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say. All he can think is that John's attitude is going to get him killed, and it will be his fault.  _Again._  It always comes down to this. His chest constricts, and he is grateful that the gathering gloom provides some cover so John can’t see his face.

He closes his eyes and opens them in his Mind Lab. Sherlock walks over to the doors and gave them a good shake. Still secure. Down in the basement, he thinks he can hear a howl. Moriarty? Or his own voice, from the cell in Harbin? He sticks his fingers in his ears and flees.

John is talking, but he must have filtered out the start of it.

"…as you always say, that was then, this is now. I can't rewind the clock; I've changed and so have you, but that doesn't mean… it's not…" the shorter man stutters to a halt.

Now John isn't finishing his sentences either. "Sherlock, if you don't let me back in, if you turn away from me- I swear I don't know what I will do, but I'm not having it. Do you hear me? There is no way in hell that I'm going to let you go, or let you push me away because you somehow think that's what you  _should_  do. So get back to the house and listen to the recordings of me trying to make sense of this. If at any point when you're listening I haven't made one fact crystal clear, then here it is again: I'm not going anywhere. Mary isn't an obstacle. You're not losing a friend; I'm still here. You're gaining another friend in her. You are still a part of me, and  _we_ intend being a part of your life. Got that?"

"John, before you make any decisions about that, you need to listen to my last recording."

"Why?"

"Because it explains  _why_. You said you didn't care  _how_ , you wanted to know  _why_. So, that recording is about what happened at the pool between Moriarty, me and you- it explains why I did what I did. And why I have to do what I have to do  _now_ , for both our sakes."

With that, he hugs his Belstaff tighter against the wind. Walking around John, he heads back to Hartswood on his own.


	19. "You Enjoyed It"

He stabs the record button on his phone with some ferocity. Sherlock has just listened to Mycroft pontificating on his version of events. Diane Goodliffe had made the recording last night in London. What she doesn't know is that he's liberated her phone for a vital ten minutes, when she had left it in the kitchen – just long enough to transfer the file to his phone. She’d come in shortly after John had returned to the big house next door, presumably to talk to Mary and to listen to his last recording. From his position sitting on the stairs, he’d heard Diane come into the middle house, and then disappear next door, probably to talk to Hayter and Cohen about him.

He glares at the Skull.  _I'm not paranoid._  She concedes the point;  _balance of probabilities says you're right- this time._  He also knows that the surveillance his brother would have put on her phone would see nothing unusual - after all, the therapist would be doing that transfer of the file herself as soon as he sent her his own version. It is just a matter of timing. He wants to know _now._

In part, fixing his anger on his brother helps to blot out the conversation he’s just had with John out in the field. _Don’t want to think of that now._

The Box whispers; _this way to oblivion._

He shoves that thought away. Even though the apparatus is there, he knows full well that there will not be a grain of cocaine anywhere within reach.

So, he has turned his anger and energy in another direction. It will not have occurred to Diane that he would steal it to listen before preparing his own. This is so not in her rule book. For a moment, he wonders if his brother will have deduced the likelihood of Sherlock taking a sneaky peak.

There is a snigger from the Ottoman box. It is sitting on the bedside table, keeping him company as he records his reply to Mycroft. Only after that would he tackle listening to John's recordings.  _Pain before pleasure?_ murmurs the sultry voice.  _You are being a masochist today._

He is seething. Mycroft's patronising comment telling the therapist that she'd "earned a drink" still rings in his ears. That "interview" has been just one inflammatory statement after another, and he is well-fuelled with enough anger to see him through his recorded riposte.

"So, this is my version of the events, when you crossed my path nine weeks ago in Eastern Europe. First of all, let me set the record straight,  _Brother_. There was no 'rescue'. I wasn't in need of your assistance then, and I'm not now."

He draws breath and tries to calm his voice.  _No need to let him know how rattled you are._  His anxiety has more to do with his recent conversation with John on the way back to the house than it does with Mycroft.

 _So, calm yourself._  The skull is being particularly intrusive at the moment. He snarls back at her-  _Watch it now; you've got competition in the shape of an Ottoman Box._  He isn't feeling in the mood for logic and reason; rage is feeling pretty good right now.

"Right, where was I?" He lets the sarcasm drip from his words. "Oh, yes. I was shackled to the wall of a concrete cell, getting beaten up. Par for the course, brother mine, as you quite rightly commented. Occupational hazard and nothing I couldn't handle. In fact, if you had only stopped to deflate that monstrous ego of yours for one moment, you'd have realised that far from being some damsel in distress needing your help, I was in the middle of engineering my own escape when you gate-crashed and nearly caused the whole thing to go belly-up."

He takes a sip of water, before resuming. "It had taken me three days to line up the young soldier who was standing guard outside. He was an idiot- didn't like the sound of someone being tortured so he hid inside his music. Andrija* was his name and he was about as far from his name-sake as possible. Most willing to take a bribe, however, which I promised him as soon as he got me out of the door. All I needed was access to his phone and I could wire the money. I'd already done it once- a gesture of good will to show him that I meant business. We'd rehearsed the whole thing, while his idiot superior was out spying on his wife.

"On the night in question, everything was going to plan. All I had to do was give Blagoje Čubrilo the final bit of information and he'd disappear off to murder the coffin maker who was sleeping with his wife. Just as I got to the point, a spanner arrived in the shape of a third party to get stuck into my works and cause problems. I couldn't see who, because I was inconveniently shackled facing away from the door. But I could tell from Blagoje's new enthusiasm to beat me that it must be some big-wig he was trying to impress. But I wasn't worried. From the sound of his boots on the stone floor, and the thud of ample flesh into the chair in the corner, it was someone who was able to indulge his appetite to eat more than the common foot soldier. So, as long as Andrija didn't panic, between the two of us we'd be able to overcome this new person. In fact, I thought it might help my escape. We could strip his uniform off and hang him up to stand in for me. But, of course, the uniform would be miles too big for me."

He hopes his barbs struck home a bit. In his absence, Mycroft had gained weight.  _Comfort eating? How very predictable._  He smirks; the comment came this time from the Ottoman Box rather than the Skull- it speaks of another kind of addiction, this one an issue for his brother rather than his own particular indulgence.

"It was unfortunate that the interrogator decided to target my throat; meant I had some trouble getting him to listen to my final comments. And it slowed things up, too, because the idiot then decided to tell our mystery guest everything I was saying. It was like a pantomime being conducted for the benefit of an audience of one. While I was in the middle of laying the last bit of the trap, this intruder spoke to ask a stupid question. 'Well? What did he say?'" He laid on a thick fake Slavic accent.

"If you could have got up off your fat ass to come closer you'd have heard what I said. It took me a few moments to decide that you were actually real and not some figment of my pained imagination. The second time you spoke in that ridiculous Barajevan accent, I realised it really was you."

He sniffs. "I let you do the rest of it. Well, given you'd come all that way, it was the least I could do to let you have your fun- getting the guard in, making him carry me upstairs. I was just sorry that I didn't get a chance to pay him his bribe. Did it never occur to you that he was rather easy to force into helping you? No, of course not; you think you are invincibly clever and just so good at espionage that he folded to your superior intellect."

"That's you, all over- making assumptions without considering the facts. So, you should admit the truth, brother mine. I didn't need you to rescue me. In fact, the reverse was true. You needed me to rescue you. All the king's horses and all the king's men, including you, hadn't been able to figure out the underground terrorist plot. You  _used_  that failure of yours as an opportunity to suborn my agreement with Elizabeth. Talk about desperate measures. I was back scarcely a week and I cracked it. You really  _are_  slipping, Mycroft."

He draws breath. "And another thing I need to set straight. This idea of yours that you are 'the most significant person in my life.' You might like to think so; I know it's a lie.  _You_? You're the  _absence_  in my life. The one who left- first you ran off to prep, then school, then university, then overseas- anything to get you as far away as possible from me. After mummy died, you abandoned me. Oh, I know what's coming next; you'll trot out that you 'rescued' me from the clinic and negotiated with father so he could ignore me officially, just as he had hoped for years. _You_ , significant?! Hah- for the next decade I saw the Parham gamekeeper more than I did you, Mycroft. Mind you, he was a better person – he never judged me. That's your speciality.

"And as for 'brotherly love'…" he pumps that phrase with every ounce of scorn he can, "… 'risible' doesn't come anywhere near what I think of your abuse of the term. I've never seen anything from you except someone who thinks he can dictate to me, control me, and criticise me. If this is love, then it confirms what I've always thought. Love is the most vicious of motivators, an incredibly destructive emotion. I've spent a good part of my life believing I was stupid, because you were so quick to point out my errors as I was growing up; no one could ever meet your standards. When I was little, I didn't know any better, and thought you were right."

"You've imprisoned me more times than any Eastern European, just dressing rehab up by saying it's 'for my own good.' And when I finally manage to get out from under your big fat thumb, and you still persist in saying I can't cope without you. You've finally gone too far- this microchip in my back? I'm not a dog that strays, Mycroft. You don't own me. You have no right…"

He is almost speechless, choked with rage.

"You suggest that you know me, you can 'deduce my every thought' just by looking at me. And then in the next breath you say I can still surprise you. Which one is it, Mycroft? While you're listening to this, I can predict the smug 'I told you so' look on your face. I'm being way too emotional for your taste, aren't I? Losing control, not like you- calm, detached, so above all that. Well, I'm not you." He nearly shouts the last sentence.

"You've finally turned into father; he always said you would." He knows that his ragged breathing is probably going to show up on the recording. He doesn't care.

Lowering his voice but making sure the venom is still there, he continues, "And you had the  _nerve_ to tell Diane Goodliffe that you were 'angry' at having to come rescue me. She might have believed you, but I know better. What really made you angry was the fact that I wasn't dead yet, to prove your assessment right all along. You were angry that you couldn't solve the underground plot on your own, that you had to call on your  _little_  brother to come help you out. You were angry that you had to actually do some fieldwork for the first time in years. You were angry because I managed to solve Moriarty's death and the destruction of his network,  _without your help._  That's why you actually enjoyed sitting there watching me get beaten to a pulp."

The Ottoman Box is sniggering now.  _You're really losing your rag, aren't you? Be careful, next thing he'll be asking one of those doctors in the house to prescribe something to calm you down. Let me help with something you'd prefer._

Sherlock makes a conscious effort to breathe deeply through his nose and holds it for a count of four.

"Right." He is calmness personified. "I appreciate Miss Goodliffe's approach to sharing perspectives, seems a sensible way to start if anyone else is even remotely interested in helping me once I leave here. But, the idea that I would include  _you_  in that circle of people? Well, as you recently said to me, "friends" are not your area. So I have no qualms about cheating, and listening to your recording before I did mine. I'm  _so_  glad I did. Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

He ended the recording, saved the file, and then attached it to an email:

**To: Diane Goodliffe**

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Send this file to Mycroft first, then send me his version, and only then read mine. I'm listening to John's recordings now, so don't interrupt.**

**Regards,**

**SH**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: * "Andrija" means "Warrior" in Serbian. "Blagoje" means "Gentle"- these are real first names in Serbia.  
> ** For Mycroft's reaction to this recording, see ExFiles, Chapter 43, Excoriate.


	20. Sherlock's Final Recording to John

"Take this; you're half frozen."

Mary passes John a cup of tea, and slips back onto the kitchen stool across from him. She knows from the expression on his face that things have not gone as well as she had hoped they would.

"You found him?"

He nods, his hands wrapped around the mug to help warm them up.

"And…?"

"I said what I wanted to say. Told him that if it wasn't clear on my recordings, I was making it clear now, and I did- told him in words of one syllable that he's not going to get away with pushing me aside. He told me to listen to the third tape before he'd go any further- and just walked away." He took a sip from the steaming cup. "Did you see him come in?"

She shakes her head. "No, but by the sudden activity of his brother's people, I guessed he was back. They said he'd gone upstairs to his room."

"He said he was going to listen to my recordings." He takes another sip. "I don't know if what I just did was the right thing to do, or the stupidest thing I've done since he got back."

She gives him a reassuring smile. "Look on the bright side. You've just met face to face and he hasn't had a flashback or a meltdown. That sounds like progress, after what happened in the hospital and at the gym."

That gets a smile from John. "Thank you. You are a person who sees a half full glass, rather than a half empty one. Part of the reason why I love you."

She pulls a mock frown. "And there I was thinking it was because you thought I was sexy."

That gets an even bigger smile. "Oh, that too, of course." Then he sniggers. "Only you don't want my cold hands trying to share some of your body heat right now."

"Don't you dare. We'll listen to that third recording now and let you thaw out."

She pulls the recorder onto the kitchen counter, checked that the digital counter is at twenty four minutes and hits the play button.

"This is my third entry, but taken out of order from the one suggested by Miss Goodliffe. For reasons that will become clear, she has been barred from listening to this entry. This covers the occasion I have chosen to explain the situation that exists between John Watson and myself."

She snorts. "Rather formal- sounds like a police statement."

"Shush."

"On the night we met again nine weeks ago, you asked me to stop telling you  _how;_ you wanted to know  _why_. The explanation begins years ago, the very same night you moved into Baker Street. When the cabdriver was telling me about his serial suicide victims trying to talk me into taking the pill, he said I had "a fan"- someone who had incentivised him to kill randomly, in order to attract my attention."

Mary hears John gasp, and looks over in surprise.

"I know, I didn't tell you that at the time. Well, after all, we'd just met. And when  _someone_  shot the man in the chest, while he lay dying I got a name out of him." There is a pause, then "Moriarty."

John closes his eyes. "Fucking bloody  _hell_. I'd forgotten that; I asked him what was making him happy, and he said 'Moriarty'. I asked him what's that, thinking Moriarty was a what, not a who."

As if he had heard John's curse, Sherlock continues, "In my defence, John, at the time I didn't have the faintest idea who that was, so I didn't correct your misunderstanding. I didn't say anything about that to Mycroft either, although when he showed up at the crime scene, I was suspicious. You also need to know something else- remember General Chan? While I was in China, I did a little digging into the back history of the Black Lotus tong. Turns out, she was using Moriarty's services. Another link that we didn't know about. At the time, I was more concerned that you had been taken hostage and threatened, because they thought you were me. I decided it was a case of mistaken identity, and didn't think that you might have been targeted specifically.

"It wasn't until the bomb across the street from 221b that the penny dropped; someone was trying very hard to attract my attention. The fact that my brother showed up the next morning did make me wonder if there was some connection, but…I let it go. You know I hate speculating in the absence of data. Then the pink phone arrived, and I began to realise that someone had set a series of initiation tests. The balance of probabilities said this was Moriarty. By then, some of my own digging was beginning to get a profile. He's more Mycroft's cup of tea than mine- and that made me think. The Bruce Partington Plans? How  _very_  awkward. Andrew West was dead and the plans were in the wind somewhere, but Mycroft was very interested in just who might want to purchase those plans. That someone, I later discovered, was Moriarty."

John groans. Mary is getting concerned; "is this all news to you?"

"Yeah, talk about being kept in the dark."

"About now, you are getting seriously annoyed with me. All I can say is that  _I didn't know either_. Mycroft was keeping me in the dark as much as you; and he was  _using_ us both. To be fair- and you know just how disinclined I am to be fair with my brother- it was probably sensible. He didn't expect me to be of interest to a man wanted by the police and intelligence services of 32 countries. And I know now that he had no idea about Moriarty being behind the serial suicides or the bombing campaign. To some extent, we were all fumbling around in the dark. The pieces only became clear to me much later, with the benefit of hindsight"

"The morning after the bomb in the block of flats, you and I quarrelled. You asked me why the bomber was doing what he was doing, and I answered that I thought he wanted to be distracted. The game itself had become amusing to him. And I found the whole process to be fascinating- as if someone had tailor-made a whole series of opportunities for me to show off what I could do. I mean, starting with Carl Powers- my very first case? Well, who could ignore such flattery? You took exception to my attitude, and got on your moral high horse, accusing me of not "caring" about the 'actual human lives at stake'.”

There is an audible sniff on the recording. "I told you then that caring wouldn't solve this, or save lives, and my answer obviously disappointed you."

John's face tells Mary that he can remember that conversation very well.

"There was another thing you said- meaning to be morally superior, no doubt- but it made me realise something important. You said, and I quote, 'I hope you will be very happy together.' If it hadn't been for that comment, it would've taken me quite a lot longer to realise that Moriarty was trying to recruit me, or at least use me to get at Mycroft.

"But, before I had a chance to think that through, the next call came through and we were off to solve the case of the missing banker- or another innocent victim would be killed. I was being incentivised, John, with those  _actual_ human lives you were on about, and saying 'no' wasn't exactly an option."

She can hear in his tone that John's criticism still stung a bit.

"After we solved the fake painting puzzle, you went off to try to find out what was going on with West's murder, while I went to Scotland Yard and the interrogation of Miss Wenceslas. It was there that she confessed that the person she had consulted about the forgery was Moriarty. Lestrade was focused on solving his case, and didn't think through the implications. Moriarty had just blown a £30 million job and been willing to turn in three of his own clients, not to mention killing the twelve people in the block of flats, just to put together this puzzle. There were clearly high stakes being played for here."

John groans again. "Him and his bloody  _games_."

Mary is confused. "Who? Moriarty or Sherlock?"

"Both."

Sherlock's baritone continues during their exchange. "That made me angry. Moriarty was toying with me because he wanted to use me against Mycroft. He was certain that I was no real threat to him. He'd  _handed_  these puzzles to me. He wanted to turn me into a weapon against my brother, and I was not about to let that happen. I convinced Lestrade to keep Moriarty's name out of the police database for twelve hours. It would give me a head start before someone leaked it to him.

"I then caught up with you on the train tracks, and we solved the West case, retrieving the memory stick with the plans on it, and turning the brother-in-law over to the police. Then I realised I had the means to draw Moriarty out into the open. If I turned the memory stick over to Mycroft, he'd want to know everything about what had happened, and I wasn't entirely sure I would be able to keep him unaware of Moriarty being behind the bombing campaign. If he found out, I know him- he'd shut me out of the whole thing, and probably lock me up in a cell somewhere, claiming it was for my own good. He does have a habit of over-reacting."

John yells at the recorder, "Jesus, Sherlock!  _Over-reacting_? When you've just picked a fight with the world's most dangerous criminal? I wonder why he might think that stopping you was a good idea?"

"…and I was hardly going to tell  _you_  about it. You'd made it clear by then that you disapproved of my morals, and this was going to be risky. So, I went on my own. That way I hoped to keep both you and Mycroft out of the firing line."

John hits the pause button and glowers. "He lied. Sat there in his chair at Baker Street and lied through his teeth; said he'd returned the memory stick to Mycroft. I went off to a date under the assumption that it was all over. Of course, I didn't make it; some of Moriarty's men jumped me, drugged me and the next thing I know, I'm strapped into a vest of semtex just like the earlier four victims."

Mary's eyes are huge. "You've never told me that!"

"Classified."

"Then why am I listening?"

"You must have passed muster at some point; Mycroft is likely to have done a vetting as soon as Sherlock came back."

Mary knows the truth of that all too well. That Sherlock is telling all this to John said that he knows, too. She feels a frisson of fear, as John switches the recorder back on.

"So, we have arrived at the pool. The scene of the first crime I ever investigated. I was fourteen at the time, and as you know, I didn't solve it then. This time, I took the precaution of bringing your gun to the pool, because I had no idea what to expect. Best to be ready for anything, I thought. "

A deep intake of breath. "But I wasn't prepared for what happened when you stepped out of the changing room. For a moment, I thought  _you_  were Moriarty, and that I'd been living with a criminal mastermind at Baker Street for the past year. But then you opened your jacket and revealed the bomb."

There is a pause, the first real gap in the flow of his statement.

"I realised that Moriarty had manoeuvred me into an impossible position. Whatever else was being said- and you will remember the exact words as well as I do- the real agenda was obvious. If I gave him the memory stick to free you, I would compromise Mycroft. If I didn't, he'd kill you. The two people I cared most about in the world, and he was making me choose."

John reaches over again to hit the pause button. He closes his eyes, and says quietly, "mmm. I'm…um, I need to think this through. Give me a minute." He gets up and walks over to the kitchen sink, taking their mugs with him. He starts to wash them out.

"Talk to me, John. What are you thinking?" Mary keeps her tone light, burying her worries.

He is scrubbing the inside of the second mug when he answers. "I'm thinking that he's taken a long time to tell me this." He turns the tap on to rinse. "I wish I had known sooner."

John is drying the cups when he says to her, "Turn it back on. I need to hear the rest."

She does so, but there is a pause, as if Sherlock was hesitating. "Then you did that thing…that unexpected grab that meant the snipers trying to kill you would shoot Moriarty in the process. You shouted 'run', as if I could, or would. You are a good man, John Watson and I did not deserve that kind of sacrifice from you."

There is a silence and then the sound of a breath being taken and then slowly released. "I put you in harm's way. You were there, about to be killed, because I was too stupid to realise that Moriarty would have seen us, and known that his plan would work. I gave him the bloody memory stick. And it still wasn't enough; he just tossed it into the water and said he could get that anywhere. I'd just been played, John, to reveal that I was willing to betray Mycroft to save you. He may have said it to you, John, but I rather showed my hand, too."

"I've replayed that final scene thousands of times. I don't know if he would have taken the risk of being in the same room as an armed bomb. Those snipers were there for a reason. My bluff- to shoot the vest that I had torn off of you- could have been a total failure. I honestly had no idea if a bullet would have set it off- probably not, I have since learned- but I didn't know that at the time. But, if I shot him, then the snipers would kill you- and me as well."

Subdued now, Sherlock says quietly, "I was preparing to offer him a deal- I'd have agreed to go with him in exchange for letting you go. I think he would have taken that offer, and used me against Mycroft, but we'll never know because that phone call intervened."

There is a shaky breath and then he continues, "When I sent you back to Baker Street, I walked. I needed to think. But Mycroft must have been tipped off by my call to Lestade, and a car intercepted me and took me to the townhouse. That's when I asked him to put you in protective custody or a witness protection programme. And that's when he  _finally_  told me more about Moriarty."

"I was so angry- and…well…um, worked up… that I decided his keeping me in the dark about Moriarty meant I would do the same to him. So, I didn't tell him about the cab driver, or much about our conversation with Moriarty."

"You know what happened next. I told you to leave Baker Street, and you refused, leaving me no option but to do so myself*. I then contacted him and tried to see if he'd take the deal- me- but then Moran intervened and derailed everything- and I ended up in rehab. Mycroft was no doubt delighted that he'd side-lined me."

There is a click, as if Sherlock had turned off the recorder briefly to marshal his thoughts.

The recording resumes. "You need to understand that this incident at the pool didn't end there. Once out of Mycroft's idea of a jail, things appeared to be back to normal. You know how I tried to get Mycroft to work with me- but he kept trying to do things on his own, claiming it was to protect me. Irene Adler was part of Moriarty's plans, - did you figure that one out? Do I have to remind you? 'On the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson.'" He gives it the perfect American accent that the CIA man had used in Belgravia.

"Mycroft wouldn't allow me to tell you- and anyway, by then I was trying to put some distance between you and Moriarty, lest he decide to use you against me again. That whole business with Irene playing dead, her giving me the phone and the American beating up Mrs Hudson? It was…well, a close run thing. Through my own stupidity, I deduced the airline details without realising that she would pass them to Moriarty and he would use it. That nearly ended up destroying my brother's career. Luckily, Miss Adler's own weaknesses gave me the means to unlock the phone and extricate him from disgrace. He ended up with material that would justify his taking the risk. Of course, he didn't see it as such- and used it as an excuse to try to side line me completely thereafter from any further dealings with Moriarty.

"After that, I knew that if I didn't take matters in my own hands, Mycroft would end up losing if he tried to take on Moriarty himself, and you'd end up dead. So, I started plotting- the Sigurson Plan is what I called it. Took me nine months. Mycroft did not know about it for ages, and when he finally did find out about it, he didn't approve. Remember when he came to Baker Street after we got back from Dartmoor? That was when he realised I was going to do this, and he wouldn't be able to stop me. It was only at the very end that he was allowed to help with the thirteen scenarios to get me off the roof alive."

"So, I hope that explains not only what happened, but, more important, why. I tried to keep you as far away as possible, so you wouldn't be targeted. But Moriarty knew- and, well…you’ve heard what he said on the roof. So, that is why I won't apologise for saving your life by what I did two years ago. All I can say is that you were willing to kill a man to save my life on the first night you moved into Baker Street. It…um, just took me longer to return the favour. And I didn't have to pull the trigger myself."

There is a pause.

"That's also the reason why now you need to stop being associated with me in any way. The person who put you into the bonfire is still out there. Mary, you need to convince him. I will not be responsible for your death. I _can't_  let my weakness cost you your life. So this is my note. No, not  _that_  kind of note, you idiot. I'm not about to jump off a roof or anything else like it. This is just goodbye, John. I am going to survive, and so are you. But it has to be apart."

The recording ends. John raises his grief-stricken eyes to Mary. "Oh, God. What am I going to do now?"


	21. Planning for  Firefight

As she watches Sherlock approach John on the footpath, Diane worries about what is going to happen. If the doctor has listened to Sherlock's recordings, it won’t be fair, as Sherlock has not had the opportunity to do so with John's version of events. The whole point of the exercise could be ruined. And there is always the possibility that contact between them might trigger another episode in Sherlock; whatever had driven the earlier flashbacks has not yet been addressed. Out here, in the middle of the fields, there is more risk involved if a psychotic break occurred, and she inwardly curses Watson's impulsive behaviour. She doesn't know whether to intervene or not.

They seem to be talking quietly, so she holds her peace for a few minutes, until suddenly Sherlock is in motion, his coat billowing out behind him like a sail caught in the wind. John just stands on the path watching as the taller man walks pointedly around him and then off towards the manor house. Even at the distance of thirty feet, she can tell from the droop in John's shoulders that something has gone wrong.

By the time she reaches John, though, he's used the moments to get his emotions under control.

"What happened?" She tries to keep her alto under control; whatever had happened, there is no need to make John feel any worse. While she might worry about the effects of breaking the arrangements of parity in the reciprocal exchange of recordings, there is no point now in criticising John's actions to circumvent them.  _It is what it is._  She gives him an encouraging smile.

"He says I should listen to the third entry before we talk any further."

Diane knows that both men had swapped the order of the exercises.

"You should, John. It's important that you hear the whole context, before making contact. That's what we agreed and it's only fair. By the way- he hasn't allowed me to hear the last recording; said it was 'classified.' For what might be the same reason, I haven't listened to yours either. He hasn't had a chance to hear any of yours yet, not the first or the second one. So…whatever happened between you outside just now, he isn't aware of what you said."

John nods. "Yeah, you don't have to rub it in. Coming out here was a mistake, but…" He looks at the setting sun. "I had just listened to him saying on that second recording that he thought I had 'moved on'."

He shakes his head. "I'm not sure I ever realised how little he is able to understand about what I think about him." Even in the gloom, she can see the distress in his sad smile. "He could deduce my life history the first time we met, but now he can't see how important he is to me. I was afraid that if he listened to my version…well… he might not realise that fact. I came out here to spell it out to him in a way that he can’t misunderstand."

"Good. So, he should know now. Communication about feelings is not easy for him, or for you, for that matter." She smiles. "British men- it's the default position. So, it's good that you're both trying. Nothing can be solved instantly; it's a process of getting the channels open again. No harm done."

He doesn't look convinced.

"Come on, we're both freezing to death out here." She nudges him in the right direction, and he falls into step beside her, the trace of a slight limp evident. That's when she realised why she hadn't recognised him when he first came down the path- no cane.

"Something to bear in mind, John…there's plenty of medical research to show that someone like him can be socially competent with people they don't know, but really struggle to understand the emotions of those who are closest to them."

He repeats her phrase, incredulously, "someone 'like him'? There's no such thing. He's unique."

She laughes. "Yeah, I'm starting to share that opinion, too. Mycroft said that surprise was the one constant with Sherlock." She needs John to keep things in perspective, and the soft touch of humour is her way to help him see that.

"Yeah, well, I'm never bored, that's for sure. Frustrated, confused, as hell, but…"

"Comes with the territory, John, as you already know." Diane tries to give her voice the power of a comforting hug; he needs it.

When they come across the garden to the manor house, there was no sign of Sherlock; but they both see that his bedroom light was on and the curtains drawn.

"Why don't you go on in, John? You and Mary have a listen to that last recording. I'll drop my coat off, and check how things are going with the others, before joining you, if you'd like."

"Yeah, that would be good."

She enters the middle house through the kitchen, hangs up her coat and hat, before dumping her phone and keys on the table. She slips off her walking boots, swapping them for the softer slip-ons. Then she knocks on the connecting door to George's house, and opens it to find George sitting there with Esther.

"What happened?" The grey haired psychiatrist almost pounces with excitement.

"Good question- wish I knew the answer. Were you both in here when he got back?"

George shakes his head. "No- in the middle house kitchen, waiting for you both." Esther said, "But we got nothing out of him, not even a hello. Just took his boots off and went upstairs. It was like we weren't even in the room."

The former army colonel tutts. "We decided to retreat in here, where we could talk without worrying about him overhearing us. John Watson and Mary are here already- I've put them in the big house."

"I know- Watson came out and met Sherlock on the path up to the house."

Hayter grimaces. "He wasn't supposed to do that. What the hell happened?"

"It wasn't catastrophic. But my guess is that it's unsettled them both."

Esther is shaking her head. "Listen, if you want my advice, just relax. You can't stage manage this. Sherlock is a loose cannon at the best of times, and Watson's pretty volatile, too. But keeping them apart isn't what this is supposed to be about."

"By your description, this is a recipe for an explosive reaction, if I've ever heard of one." George isn't mollified. "If he has another meltdown or flashback, this could set his recovery back a lot."

George's phone pings. He pulls it out of his pocket, and his eyebrows rise. "Mycroft's PA- says he will be here tomorrow morning at 10, 'if that is convenient'."

Esther starts to laugh. "Well, take two volatile chemicals, and now add the catalyst likely to spark an explosion from either of them. Should be interesting….better check the fire extinguishers, George."

Then the psychiatrist gives a sympathetic nod to Diane. "Jokes aside…do you want me to stay? I'm Jewish, so Christmas is no big deal for me; if you'd like the support, I can easily change my plans."

Diane gets up and starts to head back into the middle house kitchen. "No, Esther. You're right. It's going to depend more on them than us. So, go and enjoy yourself. There's not much point in hanging around here. I'm doing less therapy than I expected. But, the least what I can do now is make sure that they are reading from the same sheet. They all need to exchange those recordings, so some of the emotion is already out on the table." At the connecting door she pauses to explain, "Excuse me, but I need to check my phone and find when Sherlock's going to get his recording done for Mycroft. Then I can send him what I recorded last night."

oOo

It is just before eight o'clock that Diane sits down to a supper in the proper dining room of the big house. Ingrid and Lidiya had turned into quite competent cooks- an unexpected bonus that she would not have expected from their nursing CVs. She wasn't the only one who appreciated it. Ashley Lewis and Alex Arthur seem to be delighted, too. Truth be told, they seem to be finding this assignment rather dull. "Nothing to do but watch the GPS screen all day," mutters the big ginger-haired agent. He'd been all for shadowing Sherlock on the walk to Box Hill, before George managed to talk him out of it.

John and Mary had declined to join them. He'd limped from the living room soon after she'd come over from seeing George and Esther; Mary rolled her eyes in frustration, but followed him up to their bedroom. The crutch is now back in use, no longer leaning up against the sofa where it had been left behind that afternoon. She had managed to find out that they had both listened to Sherlock's third recording, but John's reaction to her question had been terse: "no, I don't want to talk about it, certainly not over dinner, and not afterwards in private, either. In any case, it's classified, so we can't."

Her worries had followed him up the stairs.

The discussion around the table is oddly subdued, too. It is the calm before the storm, Diane reckons. None of the diners want to talk about their reasons for being there. Lidiya and Ingrid would be spending tomorrow and Christmas day away from Hartswood; George said that there seemed little point in them staying. If something happened that needed a nurse, Mary is  _in situ_ now for the next few days anyway _._  There is a desultory conversation about the challenges of travelling on the rail system or the roads at this time of year, interspersed with the ritual Yule moan about how commercialised the holiday season has become.

Ashley and Alex are a bit wary of joining in. She figures it came with the territory. People in the security services rarely speak about themselves, and she wonders what they would make of having their employer there in the house in the morning. Diane finds it hard to imagine what it would be like working for Mycroft Holmes, and surmises that their attitude would probably be some combination of fear and awe.

She wants to find a way to include them in the conversation. "So, Alex…what do you make of this new technology? Does tagging someone like this make your job sort of redundant? Are we going to see a move to make microchipping an alternative to surveillance or ankle bracelets on prisoners?"

The ginger haired man looks startled. "I couldn't possibly comment. It's not my place."

George is willing to comment. "I wonder if it might make parole officers' jobs a whole lot easier. And it must be cheaper."

Esther is not a fan. "I'll be honest -I think it's an abomination."

Diane rather agrees, but before she can say so, George replies, "There are ethical issues using them, of course, but in the case of criminal convictions where the person's movement is already restricted? I'm thinking of paedophiles, for example, who are ordered to stay a certain distance from schools and the like. Or people who've had a restraining order issued against them. Surely they'd be a deterrent, if the sex offender or stalker knew he'd be tracked."

"But what about his right to privacy when he  _wasn't_  anywhere near kids? Does the state have the right to spy on you, even if you are a convicted criminal?" Esther isn't convinced.

He shrugs. "It can be programmed to only draw attention when exclusion zones are crossed."

Ashley Lewis has been keeping quiet, but now he interjects. "Sometimes, surveillance is for the protection of the person involved. Think of dementia patients, Alzheimer sufferers- they can wander off and get hurt. They already have bracelets like that. But, for the family of terrorist and kidnap targets, an embedded GPS could be a real life saver."

The other agent scowls, and Diane wonders if it was because he disagreed with what his colleague is saying, or the idea that either of them should say anything at all. "What do you think about that, Alex?"

" _Close_  protection is what it says on the tin. There's nothing close about letting someone wander off to the top of Box Hill on his own. A fat lot of good a tracker's going to be if he gets into trouble up there. The bloody thing tells you where he is, not what he's doing- or who's doing what to him."

Esther isn't at all convinced. "Sherlock is not a criminal. He's not a child or a vulnerable adult. If anyone would bother asking him, I think he'd prefer dealing with anyone that tried to threaten him, rather than by tracked by his brother- or people like you, however well-meaning your intentions might be."

Diane decides to intervene; this has become personal, and it isn't appropriate. Trying to defuse the debate, "Let's face it; he's just as able to give you two the slip as he is to find a GPS jammer as soon as he gets out of here. And he's spent the last two years avoiding getting killed by people who were highly incentivised to do just that. The tracker's not a deterrent and it's not a protection either. It's more symbolic than that, and he's being sensible by ignoring it. He's here because he wants to get better- even though he'd probably deny it if asked. And I don't think it's right that we keep talking about this."

While the others cleared the dishes away, she is thinking about Sherlock, in hope that he will agree to talk now- and he needs to eat something, too. Then her phone pings, the ring tone that announced an e mail. She reads Sherlock's message, and sends off his recording to Mycroft, then forwarded the MP3 file she'd done at Mycroft's last night. As she is busy tapping into the phone's screen keypad, she finds herself worrying about what was being exchanged. She'll have to listen tonight. With his brother arriving early tomorrow morning, Sherlock had a lot of listening and thinking to do before then. She sent him an email:

**To: Sherlock**

**From Diane**

**I won't interrupt just now, as you asked. But I will bring up a tray at 9:30 to talk about what happens next. You can eat while we talk about John's recordings and Mycroft's, too. He is coming tomorrow at 10. I know this is a lot to take in so quickly for you.**

His text reply was almost immediate.

**8.45 No. No food, no talk. I need to be alone. See you in the morning. SH**

She sighs.  _You can lead a horse to water…_  The trouble is, as both he and John have declined the offer of talking to her, then there is no way she would be able to help them until the actual face-to-face conversations started tomorrow. First Mycroft and Sherlock would meet; then once he'd left, John, Mary and Sherlock are due to sit down together. Diane finds herself in desperate need of some planning time. She needs to hear Sherlock's reply to Mycroft, and to listen again to John and Sherlock's first and second entries. And then to practice her firefighting skills.


	22. Put Out the Fire

After listening to first two John's recordings, Sherlock turns the recorder off and walks over to the window. It’s now dark and he pushes aside the curtains to open the window wide. Most houses, this one included, are heated too much for his taste. He likes to be kept cool; too much warmth makes him sleepy and sleep is not only dull- it is positively dangerous these days. Too many things slip their chains at night, and prowl the corridors of his Mind Palace. He'd nailed an extra plank of wood across the double doors into his Mind Lab. He needs to stay awake and alert as he listens to these recordings.

He decides that he rather liked this therapist's approach. Goodliffe seems happy to eliminate one aspect of communication that always troubles Sherlock- faces. The better he knew the person, the harder it is for him to read their expressions and decode what they are thinking. It is much easier with strangers, whose emotions are usually one dimensional, simply because they don't know him. With those closer to him, there always seems to be subtexts and other agendas at play. He had never realised that John thought he was always asking to be punched when he spoke to him, until he admitted as much before they’d gone to see Irene Adler. John had dispensed with needing an invitation that night when he returned from being dead.

Recordings stripped out the visual and give him a chance to deal with just the audio delivery and the words themselves. In John's case, he had thought that he wouldn't need more than the first few sentences to know what the rest of the recording would say.

But he knows now he is wrong, certainly about their first meeting. He'd been able to deduce so much about John, but along with the trivia, he'd realised something else. This person he'd just been introduced to by Mike Stamford was not only interesting, but he was also a person in his own right. Not content to be pushed around by Sherlock. He might be short in stature, but he wasn't  _small_  by any stretch of imagination. And he would do well as a flatmate, able to satisfy Mycroft so Sherlock could get back to work with Lestrade.

As he listened to John's recounting of their meeting, a smile kept coming to his face. Sherlock had been so focused on finding a flatmate, almost anyone who wasn't boring, that he had not cared a jot about what the other person was thinking of him.  _I underestimated his deduction skills._ He listened as John explained what he expected compared with what he saw in Sherlock. The comment about Molly made him smile, too. John had always had a soft spot for her, and was more astute than Sherlock had given him credit for- "gauche as hell", he said. Well, Sherlock hadn’t been so stupid as to mention he was a sociopath  _before_  John signed the lease.

At the time, he'd been so busy thinking about what he needed that he did not realise that the man he was meeting would become so important to him. He'd deduced everything he needed to know about John, except the most obvious thing- that he might someday become his one and only friend.

The second recording- about their reunion- is even easier to sum up. John is sorry; he is apologising for his reaction to Sherlock's return.

 _As if that mattered._  Sherlock doesn't need an apology. What happened in the past is no longer as important as the fact that John had been kidnapped and nearly burned alive on Guy Fawkes Night. The more John wants to patch things up, the harder it would be for him to separate himself. And Sherlock doesn't want him to be close; he needs John to be  _safe_.

He breathes in the freezing night air, taking pleasure from the distraction. It reminds him of Tibet for a moment before his sense of smell fractionates the scents and speaks to him of softer climates, of damp rich earth, of a green and pleasant land, even though it is wearing its winter clothes. Tibet smelled of rock and ice, snow and stone. And animal dung burned as fuel in a world above tree line. The scent at Hartswood reminds him of Parham and his childhood, of midnight treks into the North Wood, when there was no one telling him what to do or how to behave.

He shuts the window with some firmness. No time for sentiment. He has to hear John's version of the pool, and compare it with what he'd sent to the doctor. This is the part he was dreading. He switches the recorder back on.

Typical of a soldier, John marches straight in.

"I remembered your point about there being  _five_  pips- but I thought it was safe enough to take a night off and go see Sarah. I figured you would call if another one came up. I should have known better; the real tip-off was when you actually volunteered to get milk. If that wasn't a clue you were lying through your teeth, I don't know what was."

John clears his throat. "I'm not going to bore you with the details of my capture and being trussed up like one of the other hostages. Moriarty made an appearance and told me what was going to happen*. I was being used to get at you; I'd let myself become bait.

"Then you arrived and I had to say what was being said in the earpiece. I tried to make the delivery odd enough that you would realise what was going on- but at first you just stared at me like you'd seen a ghost. That's when I realised that he hadn't told you that I was the hostage this time. The look on your face when you thought I was Moriarty... so I opened the coat to show you the bomb.

"And then he decided I wasn't being a good enough proxy for him, so he showed up in person and I listened to you two flirting with each other. 'Consulting criminal' you called him. And that made me worry a lot, especially when you then complimented him with that 'Brilliant'. You scared me then. Up until that time I didn't think you might be tempted. And then he stroked your ego, too- and actually admitted it was a compliment. It was a bloody mutual admiration society.

"I wasn't sure what all that was going, until you finally said that you would  _stop_  him. And then you asked if I was alright. No, Sherlock, I wasn't all right. Once I realised that you weren't joining him, I was sacred witless that he was going to kill you. And then you dangled the bloody memory stick in front of him, I realised that you were about to add treason to your list of misdemeanours. So, I jumped him and told you to run."

There is a pause, after which he continues a little more calmly. "I was already committed to the attack when he just chucked the stick into the pool. I didn't get that. And then the moment was lost, because the sniper targeted you and I had to step away."

"Then he said he was going to kill you if you didn't stop interfering. As if that wasn't adding incentive with you, I knew you'd just keep at it until you 'won', whatever the hell that would actually mean. The guy was insane, and yet you were talking with him as if he were normal. It was just…" there was a quick breath, "…bizarre. He said he'd burn the heart out of you, and you just bragged that you didn't have one.

"He seemed to know better than you do that wasn't quite true. Then he did his disappearing act, only to pop up again like some demented jack –in-the-box."

"Your brother once said to me that I had 'trust issues'. He's got a point, you know. But there I was— trusting you completely. That moment at the pool, I realised how wrong Mycroft was. I was sitting on the floor, not a blind thing I could do, with sniper lasers lighting me up like a bloody Christmas tree. I'm the one who can shoot a gun; you were the one who missed the Golem. I should have been terrified. Yet, when it came to it, I knew you'd do the right thing and that somehow, you'd sort it. It was the weirdest thing. I'd never felt more  _alive_  than at that moment."

Then he laughes. "That bloody phone. Talk about surreal… _Staying Alive_? I mean, really, it was a ring tone that some bad TV scriptwriter would have used." He draws breath, but Sherlock can hear the smile that had been on John's face as he recounted his version.

In a more serious tone, John resumes the story. "Then we were outside, you flagged the cab and then disappeared. I was hopping mad at the time, but with hindsight, I needed the time alone to think through what had happened. I kept wondering what the hell would have happened if I had not been trussed up as a hostage. Did you even know what you were going to do when you met him? Hadn't you realised that he was going to…I don't know what to call it." There is a snort of disbelief, then a little laugh. "Cliché it may be, but all I could think was 'welcome to the dark side.' Maybe, just maybe, because I was there, you didn't end up on his side."

A deeper breath. "I didn't know it- not consciously anyway- but that's when I realised that whatever else happened, you needed to keep me around just as much as I needed you. You said you always miss something. Well, this was a  _big_  miss. We both get 'bored', Sherlock. And we both find what we are looking for in life by working on things  _together._ "

Sherlock hears the emphasis on the last word and sighes.

"And nothing- do you hear me, Sherlock?-  _nothing_  that has happened since has changed my mind."

Sherlock reaches over and turns the recorder off.

 _I'm sorry, John._  Everything that had happened since that night has changed Sherlock's mind.

oOo

Sherlock isn't sure whether it was the cough reflex or his autonomic nervous system warning that he is about to throw up- but, in either case, he is suddenly awake.

Then his body takes over and he instinctively rolls onto his side before the bile starts to come up. There is the sharp metallic tang in his mouth before the vomit reaches it- as his brain comes on line.  _Why am I bleeding?_

The spasm in his stomach reaches its peak and he begins to retch, but his nose detects something else- the ammonia smell of urea.  _What's going on?_

The vomiting doesn't take long, but his brain is still confused. Slowly, recognition creeps through the fog. This particular blend of sensations isn't new. He has to work at it for a long time, but eventually the realisation dawns.  _I've had a seizure._

He groans and tries to sit up, keeping his eyes closed, knowing that the delay between his sense of balance and vision will distort and cause more nausea. That said, he also knows that the longer he stays in contact with the horrid scents, the worse it will get. A full sensory melt down would be just what he doesn't need; it would bring every medical professional in the near vicinity running, and end up justifying his brother's belief that he should be in hospital. He realises that he is lucky no one has heard anything yet.

He can’t bear the thought of trying to stand up, so just shuffles to the edge of the bed and reaches down for the floor. Once his hands make contact, he feels better, and he allows the rest of him to tumble out. Once on his knees, he starts to take off his pyjamas, which reek.

By the time he crawls into the bathroom, he has left them behind. In the dark, he fumbles with the bath taps until he gets the hot one running. A few moments later, he has managed to climb Everest and get into the bath where he clumsily washes off his own bodily fluids, and starts to feel human again.

 _Post-ictal confusion_. It is a nuisance because it disrupts his sense of time. At some point later, he has towelled off, put on his dressing gown and gone back into the bedroom. There is a demand for sleep that he keeps ignoring, forcing himself to strip the bed, bundle the soiled sheets and his pyjamas into a ball and then back into the bathroom, where he can shut the door on them and try to keep their accusatory stench away from him. It is just too embarrassing; he isn't a child. He knows that a seizure is responsible, but that doesn't lessen the shame. He is busy manufacturing a plausible story- the soup at lunchtime had not agreed with him; it was just a side effect of withdrawal, nothing to be alarmed about.

Then he starts to get angry. The welcome rush of adrenalin helps to push away the urge to sleep, but it makes his hands shake. The adrenaline is also stoking up the fires of anxiety. Why does he have to invent an excuse for a bodily reaction to something he has no control over?  _Because that's what doctors do to you- when you don't behave the way they want you to, they stuff you with drugs._

He paces, forcing his body to deal with the after effects and move on.

As he passes the bedside table, the Ottoman Box sniggers.  _There is another solution- a seven percent solution._

He ignores it. Sherlock is not going to indulge in suicidal ideation. Or the temporary oblivion offered by drug taking- either of his own choice or those foisted upon him. He is too keyed up, and needs to think this through.

The Skull avatar agrees.  _Time for logic to do its part; you just need to stick to the plan._

Sherlock throws open the window again, letting the cold night air chase the smell of his shame away. Then he resumes his pacing. Tomorrow morning Mycroft will show up. He needs to convince him to remove the chip and call off the goons. Let him get back to work with Lestrade. There must be another case by now. Christmas is always a time when the murder rate jumped. All those unhappy families forced to pretend. It almost always ends in tears. Now that the withdrawal is nearly over, the best cure is  _the Work_.

He's said his goodbyes to John on the recordings. He would tell Diane first thing that he isn't prepared to see him again, and that he and Mary should leave Hartswood. Then he'll do whatever the therapist recommended, so long as it is on an outpatient basis. Eventually, something would work to exorcise the ghosts of what happened in China. At the very least, putting distance between him and John will relieve some of the pressure and give him time to get himself back under control.

A wave of tiredness seizes him and he has to stop pacing long enough to put a hand out onto the wall for support. He’s shivering, so he shuts the window again. _Can't sleep now_. What if it happens again? Anyway, the idea of lying down again on the stained mattress is too much to consider. It would have to be replaced.

His brain seems to be going at a hundred miles an hour, but his body only twenty. It feels so  _odd._ A wave of despair washes over him. That he will be forced into lying about what had just happened makes him realise that people are intent on interfering- and he can’t abide that. The more they fuss, the worse it gets. Why don't they understand that? The more John tries to convince him of his loyalty, the more it makes Sherlock want to run away. He is unworthy of that trust, and he knows it. All that loyalty had done is expose John to risk. Even worse, John isn't getting the message that his only chance at surviving, of having the life he wants with Mary, means that he has to stop all contact with Sherlock.  _Alone is what I am; it's safest that way._ It has become his mantra.

As despair starts to ebb, the rip-tide of frustration pulls at him. He is being weak. He has to stop this, get himself back under control. He recognises the all too familiar cycle- anxiety, paranoia, depression, anger- which just keeps going round and round. Of all people, he should be able to control his own mind. But it is a whirling mess, thoughts warring with emotions, a fire has started in the corner of the Mind Lab, and he is rushing around trying to find a non-existent fire extinguisher. Flames have reached the volatile chemicals, and there are explosions. The smoke alarms are going off and the sprinkler system switches on; he can feel the wetness on his face. He opens his eyes and realises that he has come to a halt in front of the bedroom window.  _In case of fire, break glass._  He pulls his fist back and follows the instructions.


	23. del Gesu

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Diane meets Mycroft in the big house's drawing room. Ashley Lewis has put him there and then disappeared while she makes coffee in the kitchen. Now sitting opposite him on the other sofa, Diane leans forward to pour him a cup, but lets him add the milk to it, to suit his own taste. "Do you take sugar?" She hadn't brought any out. "I could get some from the kitchen if you want it".

He gives her a faint smile. "Sherlock would probably say something rude about my weight. I haven't indulged in years."

Mycroft seems calm, but observant. Not relaxed, but no visible signs of stress either, she notes. It makes Diane wonder what his reaction had been to Sherlock's vitriol on the tape. She is about to speak, when he gets in first.

"How is he?"

She hesitates; then decided honesty is needed. "He had a terrible night. At some point he must have had a seizure. We have no way of knowing for certain, because he won't say and he's ripped out all of the surveillance. But, he'd vomited, bitten his cheek and lost control of his bladder. It…distressed him, I think. Most people who have a grand mal end up sleeping it off, but not him. He stripped the bed, cleaned himself up and got rather worked up. It ended badly."

Diane watches his face during her tale. Intensely focused - he is subjecting her to the kind of ferocious scrutiny that Sherlock usea all the time, but is being more socially adept at it.

"He's hurt himself in some way."

Acknowledging the accuracy his deduction, she nods. "Yes. The first anyone knew that something was wrong was when we heard the sound of breaking glass. He punched out a bedroom window."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "He did that when he was seventeen; said that the physical shock of pain and blood loss was the perfect way to stop a depressive spiral. Sometimes he gets…stuck. Did it work?"

Diane nods with a slightly bemused air. "Yes- and then I got a detailed lecture about the reasons why it works. He is quite knowledgeable about neurochemistry and the functions of the brain."

"Sometimes  _too_  knowledgeable for his own good."

"I'm not sure I'd agree as a rule, but you might be right this time anyway. I suspect that a lot of times medical professionals would just run for cover from this sort of behaviour and drug him. But that doesn't deal with the underlying problems. Last night he refused all medication and was fussy about the treatment of the injury." She gestured to her own hand, "Bruised his knuckles and sliced across the  _abductor pollicis brevis_ \- the meaty bit under his thumb. He wouldn't let George Hayter do the sutures; Mary Morstan did them. Three stitches and bandaging- it could have been worse."

That made Mycroft frown. "What happened to Doctor Watson?"

"Sherlock refused to see him. In fact, he's refusing to see John this morning. We were supposed to sit down for a therapy session after you leave, but he is not inclined to do so, he tells me."

He eyes her sternly. "And you want me to try to persuade him to do so. Why do you think he would listen to me? Presumably, you heard what he had to say on the subject of  _brotherhood_." He puts some of the same distain that Sherlock had used with that word.

"Yes, I heard his anger. Golly, you have no idea how happy that made me feel. He was finally able to get some of that rage out. The anger he's been carrying for at least nine weeks since he got back, but probably a damned sight longer than that. It must have been hugely cathartic."

Mycroft's demeanour is rather calmer than she had anticipated. He seems in remarkably good spirits for someone who had been ground zero for Sherlock's wrath.

He sees the question forming in her eyes and answers, "I'm used to being his punching bag."

"Why are you willing to do so?"

A little shrug. "Someone has to."

Diane smiles broadly. "Yes, you're  _right_. He does need someone to help him let go. Expressing what he feels isn't easy. Did you know he was going to cheat by listening to your recording before doing his own?"

"The odds favoured it."

Her estimation of him rose. "And you said what you said in order to provoke him?"

"Now why would I do that, Miss Goodliffe?" The question is mildly asked, but with a knowing tone.

"Because fighting you makes him stronger, more determined; it  _empowers_  him."

"It also gets him angry enough to let off steam, which I have been reliably informed is good for him."

Diane realises that she might have underestimated Mycroft. Despite being the target of Sherlock's tirade, he's been willing to endure the abuse to help his brother. Perhaps after years of being disappointed by the failure of various therapists to treat Sherlock, he'd found his own approach. That could be harnessed if he is willing to try something new.

"Want to start being something even more constructive?"

A left eyebrow rises sceptically. "What have you got in mind?"

She puts her coffee cup down on the table and leans forward, her elbows on her knees and hands together.

"Remember our previous conversation? I asked you  _why_  you loved your brother. Now I am going to ask you  _how_  you love him. Well, apart from being a target of abuse on occasions. What do you do to show what you feel?"

The eyes go stony. "I keep him alive." Mycroft sniffs derisively. "Well, one of us has to try, given he's so hell bent on self-destruction."

Diane nods. "I'll bet that you see yourself as 'Mister Fix it'. You've been cleaning up after him for a lifetime, and getting no thanks for it. You pay his bills; put him in rehab when he falls off the wagon. You've organised his schooling, his flat, smoothed over the people he riles, tried to make sure that he has enough of a support network to get by, rather than end up on the streets. And he's probably hated you for it all the years you've been doing it."

She sits back now, knowing that she has his complete attention. "It doesn't always go according to plan, does it? Esther says he's done that, too- spent time homeless, and on drugs. That annoys you because you think it's a waste, and it's dangerous. You've spent a lifetime worrying about him. Trying to get him to take responsibility, stop him from taking crazy risks, neglecting his health and well-being." She picks up her cup and took a sip of coffee before continuing. "How am I doing so far?"

"Accurate, but I'm not sure why you think it is worthwhile describing the obvious."

Diane decides that the slightly barbed tone is probably because she is getting a little too close for comfort.  _Good._ "Keeping him alive, keeping him safe- those have been your mantras- even if he interprets it as controlling, interfering or dictating. It's not been particularly successful for you or for him, has it?"

"He's alive, so it  _is_  clearly successful."

"But pissed off at you."

"A price worth paying; goes with the job."

"Being the elder brother, the legal guardian, the substitute parent."

He doesn't contradict her.

She crosses her ankles and makes herself physically relax, knowing he will see it. "And then he does something crazy unexpected; he launches this 'plot' of his. He's clever enough to stop you from interfering and then actually pulls it off. Two years without big brother watching over him. And he hasn't just survived; he's been astonishingly successful- done things no one expected him to do, least of all you."

"Yes."

"Do you know why he did it?"

"To protect the lives of three people: John Watson, Mrs Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade. It wasn't Queen and Country or the greater good, I can assure you."

Now it is her turn to raise a sceptical eyebrow. "Not according to John Watson. He was rather annoyed at not being allowed to sew up Sherlock, and when I spoke with him about it in the wee hours of this morning, he told me about the third recording- the one I wasn't allowed to listen to."

"He should not have discussed that with you."

It is odd. When Mycroft becomes annoyed about something, he goes very still. Somehow that adds to the menace. It’s very different from Sherlock. She decides to reassure him.

"I know- security clearances and all that. Don't worry. He didn't reveal anything secret. Just that your brother's motivations were not to protect only him. And Sherlock put the others you mentioned in there because they were only thrown in by Moriarty at the end, as I understand it. Yes, of course, he cares about them, too, but that's not what got him started on the plan. No, there was  _another_  person that he was trying to protect, and that person was  _you_. And, he wanted to impress you in the only way you would be impressed; he had to do it in a way that you couldn't stop him. He took the responsibility, and gave you Moriarty- the prize that had eluded you for years. It was his gift of  _love_  to you."

She watches his lack of reaction and starts to smile even more broadly. "You've listened to that recording, haven't you? John told me that in it Sherlock named you as one of the two people he cares most about. I don't know how, but I think you must have heard that." She chuckled. "I am surrounded by people who don't like playing by the rules; kind of makes life difficult for a therapist."

"Are you presuming to offer  _me_  therapy, Miss Goodliffe?"

There is no denial of her accusation about his getting a hold of the recording to John. However, she hears the distinct tone, like an undercurrent of electricity, at the idea of Mycroft being someone in need of therapy. She practices a deep-breathing routine for a few seconds as the silence drew out.

 _Be brave,_ she tells herself.

"I'm offering a way to give you a different perspective, while trying to help him, too. Interestingly, the advice to you both is the same: stop protecting each other so much; start loving each other more. It's more honest- and safer."

She stifles a laugh at the look of distaste that settles on Mycroft's face. "Yes, how decidedly unpleasant- feelings- ugh." The tone in her alto is slightly mocking, but still warm, almost teasing. "Don't worry; I'm not going all touchy-feely on you. I am starting to understand how a lifetime of serving as Sherlock's emotional punching bag would alter the way you deal with life; you'd dare not express an emotion lest it be thrown back in your face. You two are…who you are. Maybe it's just a case of changing the language you use. When English doesn't work, try French; isn't that what diplomats do? So, instead of sarcasm, anger and abuse, try expressing the same emotions you are now, but in a different metaphor."

His reaction is a sphinx-like stare.

She tries again. "When he was very little, and got in a right state, before you could really appeal to logic, what did you do to reach him?"

The sphinx blinks, eyeing her now with a combination of wariness and scepticism.

"Give me an example; I'm sure you can think of one."

It takes a few moments of silence, but then Mycroft sits forward. He has laid his coat on the easy chair beside the sofa. He leans over and pulls something out from under it, a case of some sort, but not a brief case. Diane watched him put it on his lap, and then realises it is an instrument case.

"You told me to bring something that could be used in your therapy, to help him focus." Mycroft pops the latches and opens the case to reveal a violin. "This is it- and it also answers the question you just asked."

He pulls the violin out, but leaves the bow in its fitting along the top of the case. "Sherlock was six when our mother started teaching him music. For someone who struggled with talking, he was remarkable adept at picking up music. She tried to teach him piano, the same way she had taught me. Didn't work. He  _hated_  it, and would bang the keys in frustration. He used to drive me to distraction, because, at fourteen, I was just about to sit my piano exam. But he liked listening to her play the violin. This was her instrument."

"She bought him a child's violin and taught him, and he picked it up almost instantly. Something about the left and right hand doing such different things…it appealed to him. Calmed him down in a way that the piano didn't."

The expression on Mycroft's face has softened as he looks at the violin. "I've never been able to make a decent sound on it; too complicated for me." There is mock deprecation in his tone, but she accepts it for what it was- an acknowledgement that he respects his brother's talent.

"He uses music differently. I use it as a way of clearing my mind. Alas, I am what my music teachers used to call 'technically skilled, but mechanical' and they told me not to give up a day job. Whereas everyone thought Sherlock would end up a professional musician. Well, everyone but father. I think I first understood the importance of it for him when they'd had a fight about it. I was home at Parham from school on exeat; mother was away- spending the night at the London townhouse while she kept an appointment to see a new doctor for Sherlock. This one was using a different drug regime to deal with hypersensitivity. Sherlock was practicing his scales in the music room- which is next to the little salon. I was in the library- far enough away to avoid hearing the scales, or what happened when father arrived home with a business guest and wanted to use the salon for a discussion. So, he told Sherlock to go elsewhere."

Diane listens. Sherlock had been deeply reluctant to speak of his childhood with her, during their earlier sessions. "That was then; this is now. It's irrelevant." It is his way of warding off and shutting down the discussion. Esther had warned her that he was a master of avoidance.

Mycroft looks down at the instrument. "My brother can be remarkable stubborn at times- to the point of provoking people unnecessarily. He was only eight and half years old, but he stood his ground and told my father that there were lots of other places he could have his meeting. He needed to practice here, in the place where music was supposed to be played. Things got…rather heated. The presence of the business contact made things worse; at the best of times my father didn't like the idea of Sherlock being anything but obedient and submissive. In front of someone he was trying to impress, this behaviour was intolerable. So, he broke Sherlock's violin. Snapped the neck off and then went back to his meeting."

"It was about a half hour later that Mrs Walters found the broken bits and came to tell me. I pieced together what had happened and we went off in search of Sherlock. I would have expected him to go into a tantrum at least, if not a full meltdown. But when I found him he was sitting on the floor in mummy's study. He was holding a pencil- in an odd way- in his fist, and I saw that it was bloody. I asked him what he was doing, and he showed me by stabbing his thigh with it. He just said, 'this pain is easier.'"

Diane draws a shaky breath.

Mycroft's voice carries weariness in it as he continues. "Well, you can imagine what happened next. By the time we got him to the nearest A&E we'd realised that he'd hurt himself rather badly. But the process of being seen to in the Casualty Department just pushed him right over the edge; he  _hates_  hospitals. They had to sedate him and he slept for almost 36 hours."

"I don't know what my mother said to my father. They were very careful never to argue in front of me. But when Sherlock woke up, he wouldn't talk or eat. He wouldn't get out of bed or respond to anyone for almost three weeks. Mother cracked it in the end. She came into his room and played Haydn's serenade on her violin, and then handed it over to Sherlock. 'Now see if you can do it.'"

"He tried. She spent the next three days teaching him the piece. He never spoke a word, but he played. Thereafter, she always made him play her violin because she knew that father would never damage it. And just before she died, she altered her will to make sure Sherlock inherited it. She knew that father would try to sell it otherwise." He looks down at the violin. "It was made in 1731 by Giuseppe Guarneri. The  _del Gesu,_ as they are called, are rarer than a Stradivarius. With fewer than 200 left in the world, they routinely fetch in excess of ten million dollars when sold at auction."

"So, you see, Miss Goodliffe, when Sherlock speaks, he tends to talk  _at_  people. Your recordings only exacerbate that tendency. But when he plays this, he plays for himself, as if no one else is listening. And as a result there is a much greater range of expression." Mycroft gives her a rather wistful smile. "I know for a fact that he has not even taken the violin out of its case since he returned nine weeks ago. It would be good if he could put it to use again."

"I agree. And it gives me an idea. If it were possible for him to play again, then it could be used to help with the EMDR treatment. He needs help to cope with whatever happened in China, because that's what probably led to the seizure. But now that he's injured his right hand, that won't work."

"What is EMDR and how could that involve a violin?

Diane explains. "Eye Movement Desensitisation Re-processing- it's a technique that draws on the way the brain normally processes emotional issues during the REM periods of sleep. His sleep cycle is disrupted, and according to Esther, it's been that way on and off for years. PTSD patients need help with external processing because they aren't able to do it through REM sleep."

"He's never been able to sleep properly, even as a child. But how can therapy solve what no amount of sleep medication over the years failed to cure?"

She realises that Mycroft's curiosity is an encouraging sign. "Ever wondered why our eyes move so rapidly when we sleep? After all, we can't see anything, and the speed of the movement is too fast to be involving visual images in the normal way. EMDR therapy is based on the principle of forcing the brain to process sensory stimuli at the same time as thinking about things that are, well, not to put too fine a point on it, things that are traumatic. It's a bit counter-intuitive- a lot of PTSD tries to treat the symptoms, yet studies have proved that getting the person to think about the traumatic events whilst at the same time stimulating other sensory processing actually helps."

He looks a little sceptical. "I have heard of de-sensitivity training for phobias and the like, but where does a violin come into it?"

"Some people use a visual stimulus, but others say that an audio version works just as well. The violin could provide all three- the visual, audible and physical sensations to help process and de-sensitise him to whatever happened in China. Avoidance doesn't seem to be working, so this may be a way out."

She sighs. "But he'd need his right hand to use the bow, so we'll have to try something else."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "There's always left hand pizzicato."


	24. Brotherly Conversation

When Sherlock comes into the living room, Mycroft tries not to stare at the bandage around his right thumb and hand. He looks instead at the tightness of his brother's shoulders and the scowl on his face as he flops down on the sofa recently vacated by the therapist. She has agreed to his request that he meet Sherlock in private.

On the coffee table between them, Sherlock's violin is resting.

"Why on earth did you bring  _that?_ "

"I thought it might be useful. The therapist thinks so, too."

Looking everywhere in the room except at Mycroft, Sherlock just lifts his right hand and waves it. "Not anytime soon."

"I took the liberty while you were away of sending it to Florian Leonhard to get it cleaned and serviced. Why haven't you touched it since you got back?"

A little sullenly, Sherlock mutters, "Not in the mood."

Mycroft notes the dark half circles under his brother's eyes. And the nervous flutter of an abdominal muscle, where the white button down shirt is pulled tight by his slouch. The sleep deprivation and nervous exhaustion are now more evident than they had been at the hospital when the edginess had been softened by drugs.

"You have to start sometime."

"Do I?"

Mycroft nods. "Yes, you do."

Sherlock's brow furrows. "Why?"

"Because Mummy would be upset if you gave it up."

Sherlock just closes his eyes and lays his head wearily against the back of the sofa. "She's been dead a long time, Mycroft."

"Is your reluctance this time the same as it was in 1996?"

That gets Sherlock to look at Mycroft, but he doesn't answer.

"After you were released from the Priory hospital, in the summer before going up to Cambridge you said you were frightened to try again after nearly a year of not playing."

"I remember what I said, Mycroft; it doesn't bear repeating."

"Well?"

He sniffs. "Maybe yes, maybe no. After more than two years, hearing the difference between my appalling playing and what I can imagine in my head is just too painful to contemplate. And, to be blunt, I've got other things on my mind these days."

"Such as?"

Sherlock smirks. "What happened to the all-seeing, all-knowing brother who can deduce everything just by looking at me?"

"I thought that comment would annoy you." He lets the teasing tone be noticeable.

That makes Sherlock tilt his head, as if realising that something important is being communicated. "You knew I'd listen and you  _wanted_  to outrage me?"

Mycroft gives him a rather nonchalant shrug. "Maybe yes, maybe no."

"Then did you get what you wanted?"

"It was a start."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. Mycroft attempts to bury his instinct to laugh.

"What's so  _funny_?"

He lets his smirk out. "You are always so suspicious."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Past experience, brother mine."

"Well, let me add something new to your calculations  _-two_  new somethings."

There is a wary rise of an eyebrow.

"First, I've never thanked you properly."

Now Sherlock looks _very_  wary. "What for?"

"For dealing with Moriarty. In the gym I told you that I thought it was…impressive how you managed it. But, I didn't thank you, and I should have."

"Why?"

"Because it was magnificent and you deserve thanks; why else would I bother saying it?" Now it is Mycroft's turn to look uncomfortable, knowing that would add to Sherlock's pleasure, not that he would show it.

Sherlock sniffs. "And the second something?"

This time Mycroft slows it down. He wants Sherlock to really understand it.

"In Baker Street, that discussion about goldfish. I wasn't entirely truthful."

Sherlock smirks. "So, how  _is_  Lady Caroline?" There is enough snark in that to bring a smile to Mycroft's face.

"Fine, thank you. But, I wasn't actually talking about her. It was after the deduction of that appalling bobble hat. You inferred that being different created isolation. And then you extrapolated from my failure to deduce the same thing about your client that somehow I was lonely."

He watches as Sherlock enjoyed the memory again, especially when he he’d got in his riposte 'How would you know?' The anger had clearly not faded about his jibe to Sherlock not to be alarmed by sex.

"You protested too much, Mycroft, always a dead give-away."

"I wasn't lonely. But, I did  _miss_  you."

Sherlock gives him sharp look, not willing to take that comment at face value. Then his eyes narrow, as if he suspects some sub-text he wasn't reading. Mycroft lets the silence grow, giving him time to think it through.

A sniff, and Sherlock looks away. "You missed having someone to show up. I'm the only one who ever fights back against that insufferable ego of yours. That's what little brothers are for- being irritating and allowing big brothers to feel superior."

"No, Sherlock; that's not what I missed."

"Then explain yourself. I don't have the patience today to play twenty questions."

"I can't, and that's the interesting thing. I can't reduce my missing you to a single thing; you are not a  _thing_. It's a combination of a lifetime spent trying to fathom you and a deep abiding  _worry_  about what was happening to you out there."

Sherlock snorts, and waved his left hand in a dismissive manner. "You just missed someone to control."

Mycroft shakes his head. "I am surrounded by people I  _control_ , brother mine. Perhaps it is the fact that I cannot control you, which means I am never bored by you. Worried, yes, alarmed even, but never bored." He notice that Sherlock is repeatedly running the nail of his left thumb up and down the length of his index finger- a more exaggerated version of the unconscious stimming that he usually does, flicking his thumb against that finger. It tells him more than any words could express.

Sherlock notices that Mycroft is watching his hand, and stops it, before snarling, "Change the subject. Now."

They both remember how Mycroft had used that command to deflect Sherlock's comments about being surrounded by goldfish.

"Very well, I shall. There are two more things I need to say to you."

Sherlock groans, rather histrionically. "You do so love to lecture." He leans his head against the back of the sofa and looks at the ceiling. "Get on with it then."

"You  _will_  see John Watson again. Avoidance is not a solution."

Sherlock's brow wrinkles in distaste. "That's none of your business."

"Yes it is, because you are. I am not about to let the last two years of your prodigious efforts go to waste because of your pig-headed avoidance of the obvious. Do whatever you need to do to sort it out, because you need your friend. You don't do well enough on your own."

"That's ridiculous. I just spent two years on my own- or where you lying when you said you'd noticed my absence?"

"No, you weren't  _alone_. You had your motivation to protect John and your determination to prove me wrong to keep you company. Without that now, you don't know what to do with yourself."

"In case you hadn't noticed, John has 'moved on'- chosen a mate, got new job, acquired new responsibilities. There is no vacancy in his life; position of friend is no longer available."

"And you know that is as much a lie as any other you've tried to tell yourself. Unlike half of Fleet Street, I’ve never assumed you were anything other than friends, so a wife doesn't displace you; just think of it as 'serial dating'. You tolerated that when it wasn't monogamous. Mary Morstan is no obstacle to you; quite the reverse- she champions your cause. I know for a fact that you're the one who is pushing John away now, not the reverse. He is your only friend, and he will remain so no matter how many wives, children and other domestic accoutrements he acquires."

Sherlock sits up and glares across the coffee table at him. "That's a preposterous conclusion. And whatever I might or might not want, proximity to me nearly got John killed twice in the first fortnight of my return. I might be selfish, but it would be rather unfair to demand his friendship when it will cost him his life. I don't suppose you have any further leads on who set the bonfire? Lestrade ran out of ideas within a week."

He recognises the attempt at diversion. "No, alas, whoever did it was a professional and we've hit just as much of a dead-end as you have. That doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" He sighs and slouches back again. "The safest thing to protect John now would be for me to disappear again."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "No. For precisely the same reason- without knowing who attacked John, leaving him now would not help. Whatever distance you put between you, if someone wants to get at you, they know that you'll react if John is put in danger. You could put half the planet between you or take out a full page ad in the Sun declaring you will never speak to him again, and it wouldn't matter- you'd still come."

"That's an incentive for me to opt for a rather more  _final_  solution, Mycroft. As I said to him, it would have been better if I'd died."

Mycroft has always known that this is a risk. Managing it needs very, very careful manipulation.

"The best way to protect him is to stay close enough to spot the danger before it happens. And if you deliver on the threat of self-annihilation, what effect do you think that would have on him? This time, he would not survive the loss. He said so in the gym; he told me- 'you will end up killing us both', he said."

Sherlock waves his uninjured hand at Mycroft, dismissively. "Don't be melodramatic. He has Mary."

"That will not make a difference, and you know it. As you value his life above your own, you must not risk it. You may not care enough about your own life, but you do care about his."

Mycroft has played his trump card. As Sherlock had been willing to risk life and limb to protect John from Moriarty, then it might just be enough incentive to stop him from any further thoughts about how his own death would be a solution. It is Mycroft's nightmare, the one thing that keeps him awake at night. He could cope with world crises and Armageddon scenarios any time, but the thought of his brother taking his own life quite simply terrifies him. It always has, and it always will.

He lets the silence lengthen. Not that he had expected any statement of intent one way or the other, but at least Sherlock is listening and thinking.

But he isn't going to reassure Mycroft. Sherlock finally growls, "This is getting tedious. What's the second of your fallacies?"

He'd thought long and hard about how everyone seemed to be dancing around the trauma that was driving Sherlock's behaviour. Hayter and Cohen had argued they needed to stabilise him first before dealing with the PTSD.  _Whenever has he been stable?_

It is time to take risks, before they run out of time. Mycroft pulls the virtual pin on his second grenade and rolls it across the floor towards Sherlock. "You need to deal with what happened in China. And that means doing  _now_  what is needed. That's another reason why Miss Goodliffe's first session with you starts in less than…" he looks pointedly down at his wrist watch, "…ten minutes. The violin is to be used as part of therapy. You can always use your left hand." He delivers this in his  _big-brother-requires-obedience_ tone.

Sherlock does not refuse point blank, and Mycroft takes some comfort in that one small mercy. The silence grows. Mycroft waits. He has no idea whether this is going to work or not.  _Please surprise me, Sherlock._

Finally, Sherlock lifts his hand to his forehead and rubs it, then draws a deep breath.

"I'll do a deal. Send your goons home for good, and let me get this blasted tracker out of my back."

"Then what's to stop you from running?"

"I'm too tired, Mycroft, as you will have noticed. I lack the energy." He raises a hand rather lethargically. "In any case, we both know its purpose is more symbolic than practical. Give me ninety minutes and I could eliminate its signal. But, right now? I can't be bothered."

That's when Mycroft realises that Sherlock would have done the therapy anyway. And while he welcomes that fact, the acquiescence also makes him more worried than anything else his brother has said. It is not like Sherlock to give in so easily.  _He must be in more pain than I thought._

"It's a deal."


	25. EMDR

Diane is in the kitchen when Mycroft re-appears. Ashley Lewis stands up from the kitchen stool where he had been seated, not quite at attention, but waiting expectantly. The elder Holmes turns to his agent first.

"Pack your bags. You and Arthur are heading home tonight for the holidays."

The dark skinned young man stiffens.

"No, it's not because of something you did, or failed to do. I'm not replacing you. And you can take the GPS tracker laptop with you. Keep it switched off. I've agreed to its removal at the first convenient outpatient appointment at a hospital- probably on the 27th."

Diane breathes out. "Thank God. Has he agreed to the therapy in exchange?"

Mycroft nods, and she is out of her seat and heading toward the living room before he can say anything more.  _Best_   _strike while the iron is hot._

She stops at the threshold of the room to watch Sherlock lifting the violin out of the instrument case. He would have known she was there, but chose to focus his attention instead on the violin. As he lays it gently in his lap, his left hand traces the neck of the violin up toward the scroll, as if his fingers are hungry to add touch to what his eyes can see. She watches as his fingers curve around the finger board in a caress that is languidly gentle. Then he looks down at his bandaged right hand in frustration, but still uses it to fumble the bow free from the case.

It must have hurt, but he places his thumb under the bow, to where it rests on the hairs, near the frog, and then curves his bruised knuckles around. Then he uses his left hand to bring the violin up, but not under his chin. Instead, he rests it on his collarbone. Perhaps the wound on his neck is still annoying him. Then, despite the bandage on his right hand, he pulls the bow gently down across the strings.

A single, plaintive note- drawn out in almost a sigh. But, there is a grimace of pain as he tries the upstroke.

She enters the room. "It will hurt for a few days. Your brother says something about 'left hand pizzicato', whatever that is."

"Boring."

"But, it will do for what I have in mind. In fact, it actually works better, if it involves just your left hand."

She sits down on the sofa that has been vacated by Mycroft. Diane can see the tiredness in his eyes, and a sense of resignation, too.

"What  _exactly_  do you have in mind then?"

"It's called EMDR. Think of it as…"

Before she can finish the sentence, he does it for her. "…re-processing memory, using external sensory stimulation instead of REM sleep."

That surprises her. "How did you know?"

He puts the bow down, but leaves his fingers in position on the violin's neck. A sad smile forms. "I had a reason, once upon a time, to look into treatments for PTSD. I had this friend, you see, and I thought he might benefit, if I could ever get the courage to suggest it to him."

"You still have that friend, Sherlock. If he sees it work for you, then he might well be talked into it himself."

There is a weary sigh. "One thing at a time. The cognitive neuroscience approach is only one model of PTSD."

"True, but studies show it is a most effective therapy. Do you know why?"

He smirks. "According to Brewin's Dual Representation Theory, the situationally accessible memory system in the amygdala interferes with hippocampal function, disrupting encoding in verbally accessible memory. It is impairment in this that accounts for flashbacks and sensory disruption. EMDR apparently duplicates the process that REM sleep performs, transferring information from the amygdala dependent S.A.M. memory store to the hippocampus-based V.A.M. That allows the brain to process the trauma."

His smirk broadens into a smile, as he obviously enjoys surprising her with his knowledge. "The concept isn't that different from transferring data in a computer from RAM to ROM memory. PTSD is the brain's software glitch."

He places his left ring finger down very firmly on the outside string, then snaps it down and to the right. A sharp note rings out. "Of course, my brain doesn't work that way, so EMDR may not work at all."

That comment startles her. While she knew that people on the Spectrum had some different functionalities, nothing Esther has told her suggested that the underlying structure of the brain is different. "You still process emotions in the amygdala, Sherlock; and rational thought processes are activated by the hippocampus."

"EMDR uses visual stimulus. What's the violin for?"

Diane gestures towards the instrument. "Sound is just as viable as visual. Put both together, include touch and make it patient-generated? Yes- I think that should overcome your sensory overload issues." She snorts. "Trust you to take three times the amount of stimulation needed for normal mortals…"

A wan smile. "Everyone else seems to be avoiding the issue, but you are saying the opposite- immerse myself in …whatever it is that is destabilising me, and hope for the best."

"Yes. You're not a coward, Sherlock. My guess is that you are fed up with your inability to put this to bed as anyone. So, let's just do this."

His second finger picked out another loud note. "Why not?"

She takes the question at face value, and answers it. "There are risks. It can lead to abreaction, which happens when disturbing memories that have been forgotten or repressed suddenly come to the surface, often accompanied by the release of painful emotions. It won't be easy."

"Nothing is easy. But if it can help to exorcise a few ghosts, then I'm up for it."

She nods in sympathy. "With you, in your current state of mind, there are other risks. Normally, it really works once you've had therapy to improve your handling of emotional distress and after you've built some good coping skills."

That makes him strike another note, this one higher on the scale. "It sounds like you can only do this if you're already cured."

Diane recognises the conundrum. "I hear you. That's also part of the reason why the violin is important. You need to use stress reducing routines both during and between EMDR sessions. I'll bet if I took your blood pressure right now, it would have gone down since you picked up the violin."

"Oh, that happened the moment Mycroft left the room, I can assure you." He looks at the violin and a sad smile forms. "But you're right, it does help. I have missed it."

Diane presses ahead. "If you researched this for John, then you know that EMDR involves three steps. First, you'll need to recall a visual image which is distressing you. Second, you will have to describe what that image is doing to your body and senses. Thirdly, you have to express the negative thoughts that you're having in relation to that image. Then we do it again, only this time we use the sensory stimuli to give your brain the space it needs to process. The more you do this, the better, because de-sensitisation kicks in and you eventually you are able to process the memories so they are not so damaging to your well-being."

"I'm aware of the concept. Not too sure about the practice, though."

"Basically, it means you need to do some sort of fingering exercise on the violin, watching it and listening at the same time you are visualising the image. While you are thinking about the trauma image, you will use saccadic eye movements, with tactile and auditory sensations, too, to help you process the emotional memory. You know what saccadic eye movements are?"

He nods, and then a genuine smile forms, one of the first she had actually seen from him. "The human eye is one of the most amazing genetic creations, Miss Goodliffe, and how it drives the brain is still so little understood. We don't  _look_  at things as a single process. Saccades are tiny movements of the eye that we are not even aware of, because they are made every second. What the brain selects to see in that moment is driven by cognitive brain processes without any awareness being involved." He moves the violin off his collarbone and uses his left hand to turn one of the pegs slightly, tightening the string.

"I have often said that people  _see_  but they do not  _observe_. What we call vision actually involves the information taken in during fixation pauses  _between_  saccades; no useful visual information is taken in while the eyes are making a saccadic movement. So while you are  _seeing_ , you cannot actually  _observe_. That takes brain power."

"Yes. But don't underestimate the power of seeing the image in the first place. That's what happens in REM sleep; you are actually seeing the image again, and then your brain takes the time in between movements to process and make sense of it. If you don't get REM sleep, your eyes are too busy when you are awake to process the stuff that's stuck in your memory unprocessed."

He returns the violin to his shoulder. This time he clamps it properly under his chin, before pulling at another string with the edge of his finger. The note rang out into the living room. "I think of it as a background task of indexing. My memory is managed like a computer program; I need to find time to index and tag things properly. If not, then the unfiled images just clog things up and slow down processing. It gets stuck until the disk is full and errors start happening. Even in corelet programming, if the indexing isn't working, it increases the chances of file corruption and folder destruction."

"What's 'corelet' programming*?"

"It doesn't matter; it's just metaphor for making my working memory and long term memory more integrated, and therefore more efficient at storage. I think these images that are plaguing me are just malware, a virus that's crept in and is now blocking important pathways." Sherlock looks up from the violin. "Shall we give it a try?"

Diane pulls out her phone and swipes several times, then puts the phone onto the table. "Have you got yours?"

He nods and fishes in his pocket. "What do you want to use it for?"

"Use yours to record this. It will be helpful to replay it later. I'm using mine to set the timing." She pushes the red button and the sound of a metronome emerges, keeping a steady tick of one beat per second. He puts his phone on the table next to hers and touches the record button.

"Okay, first practice the EMDR sequence. Pick up the bow in your right hand and just hold it upright, pointing toward the ceiling so you can see the tip of it out of the corner of your eye when you are looking straight at me." She watched as he followed her instructions.

"Okay, now make sure the bow tip is on the same level as your left fingers on the violin. You will need to keep up the pace of about four or five distinct finger movements per beat. And between each finger movement, I want you to move the focus of your eye from the violin to the tip of the bow and then back to the finger. Can you do that and still play okay?"

He demonstrates, and four notes come to life, an ascending scale, before the next tick of the metronome. She watches the flick of his eye from left to right and then back again.

"Perfect. Try not to move your head at all- just your eyes. It's important to get the shift between right and left as an integral part of the process."

She give him an encouraging smiles. "You can put the violin and bow down. We don't need them for the first step. Before you can apply the technique, you need first to experience it without the EMDR intervention. Think of it as setting a base-line. It isn't easy, but with that in your mind, you will be able to see the improvement once we start using the EMDR. Okay?"

Diane notes that his posture is now tighter. His hands move restlessly in his lap, as if without the violin he doesn't know what to do with them. She normally asks the client to clasp their hands together for this stage, but Sherlock can’t manage that with the right hand being so bandaged.

"Okay, try not to visualise anything about the image yet, but let's see if you can talk about the concept without triggering." Diane takes a breath and holds it before release. The calming ritual centres her.

"So, Sherlock, is it something about John that is distressing you?"

A twitch of his jaw showes her that she has hit the bullseye. "Yes." This is said very quietly.

"Okay, when I say start, for the next twenty seconds, I want you to close your eyes and visualise that image which is so distressing you."

There is a sharp intake of breath.

"Start." She begins to count the metronome beats.

By four, Sherlock's jaw has tightened to a clench, and his breathing pattern is changing, becoming shallower and faster. By nine, the fingers grasping his left thigh are white, and she finds herself worrying about the bruises that he would be making.

At thirteen, he gasps, and his breathing becomes ragged, almost panting. Micro-expressions show on his face, almost too fast to recognise them individually. At fifteen, his head starts to move from side to side, in sort of a slow motion "no" to whatever he is seeing in his mind. Diane begins to doubt whether she could let this go the full length.

When he starts swallowing repeatedly and his shoulders have joined in with the head movement, she knows he's had enough.

At seventeen, she says sharply, "STOP!" Diane follows that command with another in a firm voice, "Sherlock, open your eyes,  _NOW_!"

The blue green eyes that open to stare at her are shocked wide, pupils dilated and filled with emotion. She has to help him regain control quickly or this was going to be a very short lived session.

She dropsd the timbre of her voice to a lower level. "Next step-  _concentrate_ and do a body scan- describe the physical sensation you are experiencing. Where in your body are you feeling this?"

He gasps, but can’t put words to it.

"Point at it." She uses her deeper alto to cut through, but keeps the tone calm yet firm. No need to add to his panic.

He lifts his right hand as if he's forgotten about his injury, but the pain of the movement makes him grimace and close his eyes. Yet, it seems to have broken through the image's hold on him, so he is able to find his voice. "My chest, it feels like something or someone is pressing it…two hands pressing down hard." He shakes his head, "but it's from the inside." He takes two deeper breaths before continuing. "And now… my fingers hurt- around the nails…the cuticles." Another gasp, followed by a despairing laugh, "and here comes the inevitable." He opens his eyes again and Diane sees that they were wet.

In a calmer, more sympathetic tone, she moves on. "Step three- tell me in one word what you are feeling in terms of emotion."

There was no reply.

"Try. Just one word, Sherlock."

He looks away from her as the tears topped the lower lids and start to flow downwards. "Guilt... and grief." He draws a quick series of breaths through his nose, and then very quietly adds, "but mostly  _shame."_

She modulates her voice to the warmer tones of sympathy, offering them as a verbal hug. "Thank you, Sherlock; really, thank you. I know that was hard, but it was necessary and it was good that you were able to say it. Now pick up the violin and I'll show you how to stop it from hurting so much the next time. And then, when you can bear it, we will talk about it."


	26. Setting the Stage

When the first EMDR session finishes, Sherlock has a puzzled look. "Fascinating. Something so simple can have such a dramatic effect. How is that possible?"

" _Describe_  the sensation." Diane keeps worrying about Sherlock's earlier comment, that his brain might not work in a way that EMDR predicted.

"Reduced." He then announces that the chest pressure is much lower, and his fingers don't hurt. "Is that because they were busy doing other things?"

Diane is delighted that he is more intrigued than distressed. "Apparently not. Even if you had just sat there and let your eyes follow my finger from side to side, you would still notice a difference."

"Let's do it again." He is now keen, almost anxious to repeat the process.

The second time, she pushes a bit harder on the emotional reactions.

Sherlock keeps looking at the violin rather than make eye contact, but he is willing to try to explain his state of mind.

"The feelings are still there, but…" He seems to be thinking about how to phrase it. "…it's like one step removed; not so intense."

By the third attempt, Sherlock is able to make eye contact- "I'm uncomfortable, but I don't feel any need to  _stop_  the feelings."

Now that he is buying into the therapy, she gives him a big beaming smile. "Then it's working. That's brilliant. Disengaging the emotion from fight or flight is the first step."

At each repeat, Diane checks his physical sensations, and he duly reports less of them. After the first, he's been surprised by the transformation, but by the third, fascination has replaced anxiety.

By the fourth EMDR session, Sherlock is able to start talking about the image itself.

But Diane is careful. "If at any point, you start feeling distressed, just tell me and we can stop. We've only got another fifteen minutes maximum. There is a limit to how much can be accomplished in one session."

He doesn't let go of the violin, but he does put down the bow. She realises that the instrument might well be serving as a sort of security blanket.  _Thank you, Mycroft- an inspired choice._ "Tell me about what happened."

"It is hard to choose one incident, but I decided to use the most recent one- Bonfire Night. When John nearly died because of me."

She hears the assumption of responsibility there, and recognises the origins of his sense of guilt. "What happened? Use the DEAR technique-  **d** escribe-  **e** xpress-  **a** ssert; if you can get through that, then maybe we can start  **r** einforcing."

He recounts the facts of John's abduction and the bonfire, the telephone message and its embedded code, his mad dash across London with Mary riding pillion on the motorbike. His voice is calm as he delivers a factual account. He keeps moving his fingers on the violin, not plucking. It makes the faintest of sounds as he shifts his fingers along the strings.

When he has reached the point where the ambulance had taken John and Mary away, she intervenes. "Sherlock, that's enough description. Tell me how it all made you feel. Can you do that now?"

He nods. "Oddly…it's possible. It's sort of happening to someone else, like I'm watching one of John's crap TV dramas."

"Good, that's a sign that you're processing the memory properly. So, how did it make you feel? Before the EMDR, you said, 'guilt, grief and shame'. Tell me why."

She can see his discomfort, but decides to press."Try. It's important. Verbalising the emotion is essential."

He fixes his gaze onto his fingers, and starts, "guilt is easy to explain. If it weren't for me, John wouldn't have been attacked and drugged, wouldn't have been nearly killed. The grief is more complicated. I thought that he'd be safe because of what I did for the two years I was away. It was…" He stops for a moment to draw a breath. "...It was utterly shocking to realise that it was all for nothing." He stops talking and watches his fingers go through some sort of exercise on the violin.

"I need to understand why you think shame is a part of that." Diane knows that this is the really toxic emotion; it lies at the heart of most PTSD sufferers, a deep, abiding loss of self-esteem, sometimes from the lack of control over their own minds, but often from the way they behaved during the traumatic experience. "You  _saved_  John's life. You were in time; you rescued him. Surely, that should be some kind of relief?"

He shakea his head slowly, and she sees a muscle along his jaw line clench. "You don't understand. I  _failed._ All that effort…the Sigurson Plan…putting John through that, making him think I'd died- it was all for  _nothing._ I was ashamed because if I hadn't been weak enough to want to come back, then he would never have been nearly burnt alive.

"You're asking me to  _assert_  what I wanted to happen, as opposed to what did. I wanted John to be safe, and for me to not be the cause of his death. But, that is easier said than done. As my brother has quite rightly pointed out, as long as I am alive, he is at risk."

He keeps his eyes on the violin. "And, that in a nutshell is the problem with this, Miss Goodliffe, a problem that is rather insurmountable."

She works hard to muster up him a comforting look, relying on his peripheral vision to see it. She hopes he wouldn't look too closely, lest he see her real reaction. She is getting alarmed at the direction logic might be taking him.

He sighs and she hears the undercurrent of frustration. "It's taken us three quarters of an hour to process one memory. At that rate, it will take months to get through the back catalogue- and in those, John dies."

She hopes her face does not reveal how appalled she is at that comment. "I'm not sure I follow that- last time I looked, he was alive and well, sitting in the living room of the Big House. He's just next door."

He produces a discordant twang, pulling two strings at the same time. "The bonfire was real. And yes, he survived that. But, I'm talking about what happened in China, when I killed John over, and over, and over again." Then he shrugs. "Actually, resolving the flashbacks relating to those isn't really going to matter." He looks across the coffee table and made direct eye contact with her.

“No matter how well I learn to deal with the memories, it won't keep John alive. And the images of his death will just keep coming; they're never-ending."

"You're saying that you  _imagined_  him dying?"

He brings the violin down off his shoulder, and lais it across his lap, looking at it rather balefully. "It's a bit more complicated than that. I'm not sure I'm going to be able to say this more than once. So, it would be best if you could get Mary Morstan in here. She can explain it to John, and why for my sake, as well as his own, we can't have any more contact."

oOo

"Excuse me, sir."

Mycroft stands aside as Lewis goes by carrying a duffle bag of equipment on each shoulder.

"Lewis, can you ask Mister Hayter to join us here, please." However polite the last word might sound, it isn't a request, but an order.

While Sherlock is working with Diane in the living room of the middle house, Mycroft is next door in the Big House, standing guard in the kitchen. He is blocking John's exit, because the doctor will come to realise, if he has not already done so, that there will soon be fewer obstacles stopping him from going next door to see Sherlock. Mycroft has no wish to get involved in a physical confrontation with John, especially if the sound of it carried next door.

He has to work fast, and he knows it. For Sherlock's sake, he has to banish the heavy brigade. But, even once Hayter is in the room, he is not sure he could keep things under control. He decides to stall.  _Distract with debate._

"John, I appreciate your concern. But the more you push him, the more protestations of loyalty you make, the more likely he is to run away. Believe me, I have had years of experience in similar situations with him. It would be best if you and Mary left tonight- my car can take you back to your flat. After the holidays, then he will get back in touch."

"No. This isn't something that can wait. I'm going to sort this mess out."

Mycroft can feel the frustration coming off the shorter man. Mary is sitting on the kitchen stool, watching her fiancé pacing the length of the kitchen, fuelled by the discomfort of his psychosomatic injury. The thump of the crutch adds sound to the visual image of anger on the move. Mycroft waits until John's back is turned and gave her a pointed stare. She owes him some support here.

"John, just calm down. Let the therapist do her work. A time-out makes sense."

It is a voice of reason that has as little effect on the heat of his anger as a water bottle on a raging inferno. The doctor turns to her, eyes blazing and a fixed smile that is anything but happy. "I'm not going anywhere. Even if Sherlock himself was standing in front of me right now telling me to piss off, I wouldn't go." He turns back to Mycroft, jabbing his finger at him, "And you don't scare me enough to make a difference, Mycroft."

He wonders if he is about to become a punching bag for John as well as for Sherlock. "I'm not asking you to leave  _permanently_. Anything but, just leave him alone for a few days. Let him settle."

"I don't agree with that assessment. You aren't his  _keeper_ , whatever delusions of grandeur you might think you have in that department. And I don't think any therapist is going to make a blind bit of difference to Sherlock."

Mycroft decides that it is time to remind John of a few facts. "You may have 'trust issues' with therapists, but perhaps you should let Sherlock make his own decisions. He's agreed to talk with her. He  _wants_  this. Do you remember our very first conversation? In it I mentioned the 'bravery of the soldier'. That is what I am seeing right now. You will recall that I also said that bravery is by far the kindest word for  _stupidity_. Provoking a confrontation now with his therapist is the last thing that Sherlock needs from you."

John's smile becomes pure ice. "You've used that  _brother-knows-best_ line once too often with me. I'm not afraid of you." Then he looks down at his crutch for a moment, trying to get his temper under control. When he looks up again, he is colder. "I am only afraid of what Sherlock is going to do if I don't get in there to tell him he's being an idiot. He might know what he  _wants_ , but not what he  _needs._ "

The ginger-haired Arthur enters the kitchen on his way out, slipping behind Mycroft, to exit with his shoulders also burdened by equipment. Almost immediately, the door re-opens, and George Hayter arrives, accompanied by a blast of December night air. The ex-Army doctor takes in the situation in an instant and cocks his head at Mycroft. "In need of reinforcements?"

John has been on his way back down the kitchen towards where Mary is siting. But he turns at Hayter's comment.

"Don't get involved, Colonel; this isn't your fight." John's stance is like a coiled spring, and he looks almost like he would enjoy releasing some of that anger on anyone standing in his way.

 _How does Sherlock engender such loyalty?_ Mycroft wonders, as he often did, about the origins and depth of John Watson's attachment to Sherlock. He had once made the mistaken assumption that it was all about missing the battlefield, that the army doctor saw Sherlock as a means to an adrenaline end. After the past five years, that assessment has changed. Even so, knowing what he knew about both men, he finds it hard to describe their relationship.

Mycroft's phone rings. He looks annoyed at the interruption but pulls it out of his jacket pocket. As he reads the text, his expression changes. "It's Miss Goodliffe; she requires your presence, Miss Morstan. Next door, they're in the living room."

She is on her feet and stepping around her fiancé before John can react, but he recovers fast enough to blurt out, "Mary, just hold on."

She stops and turns.

He points at himself. "If anyone goes in there, it's me."

She is torn. "I'll tell you what's going on. And you know I will tell him what he needs to hear from you."

"Sorry, not good enough." He looks pointedly at Mycroft. "Text her back and tell him I'm coming instead. Or just stand aside or let me go in unannounced. It's either, or."

"It's  _neither_ ,  _Doctor_  Watson." Mycroft snaps the title for a definite reason. " _Doctor_  Hayter, tell me if I am wrong, but isn't it true that interfering in the middle of a PTSD therapy session can be very detrimental to the health of the afflicted patient?" Mycroft is not about to let this get out of control.

The big man nods. "Watson, because you are in some way a trigger for his episodes, your arrival would be akin to pulling a grenade and throwing it at Sherlock. Whatever you might want as a friend, your medical professionalism tells you I'm right. Let the therapist control the situation."

Mycroft watches John's emotions warring with his own profession's logic.

It is Mary who settled it. She walks up to John and envelopes him in a hug, leaning in so she could say something quietly. "Trust me, John. Let me test the water first."

His initial stiffness in her arms slowly eases and then his shoulders drop. He closes his eyes and just breathes, "Mary…"

Then he pushes himself away from her and turns to face the two men again. "I need to know what's going on; I just can't sit out here and pretend this isn't happening."

Mycroft breaks the tension. "So say all of us. Because I happen to share your concern, I may have a solution." Mycroft turns to Hayter. "I believe you have something in your pocket that I asked you to recover?"

The big man nods, reaches into his pocket and hands over a phone.

Looking rather pointedly in Mary's direction, Mycroft explains. "This was an interesting surprise. We located it, hidden in the barn. Someone rather naively thought that we wouldn't detect its use. It was 'borrowed' by the nurse, Lidiya Kitanova, to communicate to the person who got her the job here."

John looks a bit confused, "why the hell does it matter?"

Mycroft's smile is rather more knowing. "It doesn't, in the great scheme of things. It seems I'm not the only one who wanted to keep an eye on things."

Mary had stopped in her tracks and is now staring at the phone. He imagines that she is deciding on what story to offer. "Don't bother explaining, Miss Morstan. No harm done, was there?" He puts a tinge of menace in his voice that he believes she will pick up on, although he hopes that John won’t.

"And it will serve a purpose here," Mycroft continues. He switches it on, and taps in a number. His own phone trills a reply. "Carry this with you." He steps forward and slips it into Mary's pocket. "Find an excuse to put it next to you so the microphone will pick up." He looks at John. "The next best thing to being in there yourself is to have ears in the room. You will hear what is happening, and so will I. Together we can decide what steps to take next." As Mary exits, he touches the screen on his own phone, and the loudspeaker comes to life. They both exchange glances as they listened to the crunch of gravel beneath Mary's feet.


	27. What Happened In China

"You've all been thinking that whatever happened in China is some sort of repressed memory, and that I need therapy to access it. I haven't exactly been…willing to explain. But, I think I need to now, because otherwise no one is really going to understand why I can't see John again."

Diane is there, but she realises he is talking now to Mary, and really only to her.

He is still holding his violin and keeping his eyes on it. "Has John ever told you what actually happened in the underground train carriage?"

"The one that had the bomb on it? Not really, just that you figured it out and stopped the clock before it was too late." Then she smiles, trying to lighten the mood a bit. "He did say you let him think it was still armed for longer than you should have, because you're a wanker." It is delivered in a blend of affection and humour that makes Diane realise Mary is a good listener, trying to soothe Sherlock's emotions that are quite close to the surface at the moment.

He does not react to the tease. "Before I knew that it could be disarmed, we both thought we were only a minute away from the bomb detonating. He was going to die there. I told him I was sorry. I said that if I hadn't come back, he wouldn't be standing there next to me; he'd still have a future with  _you_."

"John didn't mention that."

Sherlock looks away from his violin towards the door. "He should have. I told him he should have been more careful about wishing for my return."

Diane looks at Sherlock's ravaged face.  _He's in such pain._  There is a haunted look in his eyes that speaks of hardship and loss.

Mary comes back at him firmly. "But, it didn't happen. You stopped the bomb. John's  _alive_. He's more alive now than he was before you came back. I know that, in a way you can't possibly understand. You weren't there; I was. I  _know_  that you've brought him back to life from what he was when you weren't here. So, you have to stop this idea of separating yourself now, Sherlock."

His left hand keeps plucking the strings of the violin, over and over again, the same set of notes. He won’t directly look at Mary. "You don't understand…”

"Then explain it to me. That's why I'm here."

"Because I was weak enough to want him with me on the case, he came. And then he was a minute away from dying, and it was my fault." He sighs. "It's not like it was a surprise. The week before- you were there, Mary; you know how close it was on Bonfire night. That's twice since my return."

"But, I came to you, you figured it out, and got us there in time. John is still  _alive_ , Sherlock."

He changes the order of the three notes. "I'm experiencing the opposite of déjà vu. Should that be called 'prescience'? I see a scene where you're sitting in front of me, but the words that come out of your mouth are "John is dead. And it's all your fault. You killed him."

He closes his eyes, lines etched into the skin at the corners of his eyes. "It won't be the first time someone's said that sort of thing to me."

The same three notes, over and over.

"I'm  _toxic_. Father explained it to me when I was ten. Said I had killed mummy. My selfishness and my neediness cost her health and killed her. It was my fault and I was being sent away where I should have been sent years before. If I had gone earlier, the way he wanted, she'd still be alive."

Now the three plucked notes shifted to a down scale. "Sometimes I try to imagine that- her still being alive. My life would have been very different."

"Mycroft will tell you she died of pancreatic cancer, that it was nothing to do with me. But, he can't  _know_  that. Not for sure. If she'd not been so busy with me, she might have gone to a doctor earlier; an early diagnosis might have added years to her life."

Now an upward scale of three. "She's not the only one; there've been others."

"Other what?" Mary asks.

"People I've killed." He stops plucking. "Oh not  _those_ , the ones you're thinking of. Not the criminals or times when I had to defend myself against people trying to kill me. I'm  _glad_  I was personally to blame for Moriarty killing himself. Positively delighted in fact, once the shock wore off. That's probably a bit not good, as John would say, if I could bear to have him here." He shrugs. "No, what I meant is people that I care about who have died because of me. I killed them; I'm responsible for their deaths."

Mary's face betrays her disbelief.

Sherlock stops the left hand pizzicato exercise. "Not all of them were people, I have to admit, but that doesn't mean I didn't care about them. Even more than most people. There was Redbeard; that was when I was nearly eleven. And then Pirate."

"Redbeard?"

"An Irish setter. It's a long story; I won't bore you- but definitely my fault he was put down. Pirate was my horse. He died when I was fifteen because I enjoyed making someone else jealous, because for once in my life, I was good at something*. The horse died from wounds when he broke out of a stable that was on fire. A stable torched by someone who wanted to punish  _me_. He was just collateral damage. Sometimes at night, I still hear his screams. Pirate bled to death, right beside me- because of me. It was my fault; so was the dog's death."

"This is a roll call of the dangers of my caring about anyone or anything. A bit more than a year later, I was about to go to Cambridge. Robert McGarry* was my chemistry master at Harrow, who'd picked up the pieces after Pirate died, and gave me a focus. He got me through the application, the entrance exam, the interview. I stayed with him in Harrow the week before going up, because…well, not to put too fine a point on it, I was terrified of the change. The night before he was going to drive me to Cambridge, he died."

"It was an aneurism, which again Mycroft will say wasn't my fault. But, he's wrong; it was. If I hadn't been out of the house, walking around in Harrow in the middle of the night, trying to convince myself that I could actually do this university lark, then I would have heard him fall out of bed. I would have been there to call an ambulance. By the time I got back, I found him on the floor, dead. Cranial bleeds don't have to be fatal if treatment is quick. Years later, I found the autopsy file. With prompt medical help, he could have survived. He died, because of my weakness."

He resumes the left hand pizzicato fingering exercise. "So, you see, Mary, I have  _form_. Best keep John away from me, if you want him to stay alive."

Diane can’t wait any longer. She has to ask the question, and hopes that he will finally answer it.

"Sherlock, what happened to you in China? Why are you having these flashbacks?  _John wasn't there._ "

He doesn't reply for a moment. Then a sigh. "I don't generally suffer from alexthymia, but that doesn't mean I feel…comfortable talking about  _feelings_." He gave the last word a slightly disdainful tone. "What happened in China raised a lot of feelings.

"On the other hand, explaining might actually help to convince Mary to keep John safe." He keeps his eyes on the fingers of his left hand as he presses very firmly on the third string and then drags his finger sharply sideways and down. The single note sounds surprisingly loud.

"The human mind is an odd thing. Well, at least mine is. I can't really speak about anyone else's. To the third-rate gang who thought I was just another  _guizi_  to kidnap and hold for ransom, they would probably have assumed what they weren't doing anything particularly horrible. There was no torture- a little roughing up by a guard for the first couple of days until I gave them a name to send their ransom demand to, but, really, it was nothing compared to what I'd been through before- and after. Later, when I had time to think it through rationally, I think they must have been giving me a mild sedative of some sort in the drinking water, no doubt designed to keep their captives quiet and docile while they waited for payment."

"I've always had paradoxical reactions to drugs, so I'm not surprised that it threw me into hypersensitivity. Oh, and then they decided to keep me in the dark a lot. And to muck around with my sense of time. Until then, I'd never realised how dependent I am on knowing, really knowing, what time has elapsed. There was no way to deduce it. No routines. Sometimes a light would go on for a few seconds and then out again. Other times, they leave it on for longer. Then off. Food and water came at completely random times; sometimes what felt like days passed, other times it would be only minutes later. The room was a constant cold temperature, no diurnal differences, no windows. Soundproofed, too. So no way to count steps outside or use the movement of guards to deduce shift patterns.

"There was  _nothing_. No way to measure. I tried counting my own breaths, counting circuits of the room- I walked for hours in the pitch blackness, using my fingers to feel along the wall until I found the door again. Sometimes I even tried counting my own heart beat- but I couldn't keep it up forever. I tried pulling threads out of the prison clothes and tying knots but, at some point, I would fall asleep and lose the continuity. Despite those gaps, the best estimate I could make was just over three weeks. That was probably the drug; I know that now. I didn't then."

Mary's expression is slightly puzzled. "Why did it matter to know the time?"

Sherlock plucks another loud single note. "Miss Goodliffe, what happens to a mind that is hypervigilant and hypersensitive when it is deprived of sensory data?"

The therapist ponders the question and then answers, "Extended sensory deprivation, especially when it is forced, can cause extreme anxiety, hallucinations, depression and eventually psychosis. It's text book stuff."

"Hmm, seems like my captors had read the same text books as you. Anyway, it worked. My mind became ..unmoored, adrift in a sea of random thoughts not grounded to reality. With nothing else to do, my mind turned on itself. Without the usual sensory data coming in, I started playing 'what if' games."

Diane nods. "That was the anxiety talking."

"I kept thinking, what if it all was pointless? What if John had been killed by some contingency plan of Moriarty's that I didn't know about? What if someone had figured out that I was still alive, and put into effect what Moriarty threatened me with on the roof? John could have been dead for months, and I wouldn't have known. It made it all so  _pointless_.

Diane adds quietly, "and that was the depression."

"The longer I thought about it, the more convinced I became that if I was Moriarty, I would have made  _sure_  that, no matter what happened to me, I would still be able to fulfil my threats. So, I started thinking about the scenarios of how he would kill John in a way so as to maximise the pain inflicted on me- to make me really feel not only responsible for his death, but also for the manner of his death."

Now it’s Mary's turn; "That sounds like paranoia to me."

He puts the violin down, staring at it sadly, as if it could no longer console him. "In my first scenario, Moriarty's people picked up John from the street in front of Barts and frogmarched him up to the roof, throwing him off in a real version of my faked jump. And then it was me kneeling on the pavement beside him. I expect John thinks I don't know what I put him through. He's wrong; I do, because I lived through it while in that cell."

Diane is worried that her face, usually so calm, is beginning to show what she is feeling for him. She tries to resume the reassuring look.

"After the first basic exercises like that, my mind starting creating new ways of John being killed, adding a huge amount of detail. The scenarios lengthened, each one took ages to develop, although I had no real way of measuring it. And every nuance, every twist and turn played through my mind in full technicolour and Dolby surround-sound. I've heard a sniper's bullet hit John, watched a grenade blow apart his chest, smelled his blood from a gaping knife would, felt it on my skin as I tried to stop it with my bare hands. I've listened to his last breath as he drowned, his gasp as he inhaled poison. Every one of those as real to me as the two of you and this room are."

"Hallucinations, Sherlock," Diane comments, watching Mary's face as he recounts this tale of woe, and sees the horror take shape in her eyes.

Sherlock continues in a soft voice, roughened by emotion. "The darkness of my cell became filled with John dying- from poison, fire, explosions, gunshot, hit-and-run, strangulation, even torture. And every one of these scenarios was meticulously planned by my Mind Palace version of Moriarty to maximise my responsibility.

"Some scenarios were hugely elaborate exercises- I was framed for John's murder in four cases- with Lestrade coming for two of them to arrest me for the crimes. There were trials, with testimony meticulously scripted and delivered in courtroom sessions that went on interminably in my head.

"Later, weeks later in fact, I was able to track back dates and discovered that I was held for thirty seven days. Counting time for fitful sleep, my best estimate had been less than twenty four. So, I spent almost two weeks in a state of total dissociation, living through John dying. All I know of that time was that in every case I was responsible for it happening. It was my fault, my failure, and my punishment was to forever experience that loss, over and over again.

"It was strange. I  _knew_  I shouldn't be doing this, but there was no way to stop it. The floodgates just opened. I couldn't distinguish an idea from a memory- they were so vivid, it didn't really matter. Sensory deprivation can cause something called 'source monitoring error' a cognitive malfunction that means you can't tell the difference between what is real and what isn't. John suffered my death once; I suffered his for real, dozens and dozens of times. Every time, it was as if it was the first time."

He looks up at Mary again, and his eyes are red-rimmed. "I...can't..." He closes his eyes, and breathes through his nose, his lips thinning with the effort of not breaking down.

Mary casts a sideways glance at Diane, as if wanting reassurance that she should wait. Diane gives her a tiny nod.

Finally, Sherlock seems to get a hold of his emotions enough to continue. "I... _know_  what it means to me now- seeing John die. I can't go through it. Not again. Not for real. And I won't be responsible for putting you, Mary, through that pain either."

"You asked me what happened in China, Miss Goodliffe. The answer is simple. I had a choice. Go insane or try to delete John from my Mind Palace. So, I did- well, as good a job as I could. Nothing's ever really deleted. But I had to bury it deep."

"It was enough to get me on my feet when the ransom came through. The hallucinations followed me out of the cell, though. It took a while to find a way of coping, but eventually, about a seven weeks later, I was functional enough to resume the work to destroy Moriarty's work. One thing I did do in the interval- I checked to be sure that John was still alive. That was six months before I reappeared in London. I kept telling myself that it was all in my head; John was alive and I had to keep going to make sure he'd stay that way."

He stops for a breath, but won’t look at either of the women. Then he gathers strength from somewhere and starts again. "I had no plans to return to London. While Moriarty's network overseas had been dealt with, I wasn't sure about what he might have left behind here. If it hadn't been for Mycroft's intervention, I wouldn't have dared come back without preparing more. I'm not even sure I would have had the courage to come back at all." He puts a hand out to rest on the violin, as if it can give him some comfort. "When I recovered consciousness in Mycroft's house in Belgravia, I was presented with his  _fait accompli_  and his demand for my help with his imminent terrorist threat. So I decided to hope for the best, in the belief that somehow what I had imagined happening in that cell was just…unlikely. John was safe, and he'd found you, Mary. I thought, maybe, I could forget what had happened. But, it didn't take long before I realised how wrong I was."

Mary leans forward, "...but you  _saved_  him. Twice."

He shakes his head, sadly. "When you listened to my recording about the pool incident, you heard me, Mary. Moriarty said he would 'burn the heart out of me'. In that cell, I thought he had, but later convinced myself it was just a figment of my imagination. But twice within the first fortnight of being here, John nearly died. That's when I understood that Moriarty has won."

Mary suddenly raises her hand to her mouth, eyes wide. "Oh my God, Sherlock- the  _bonfire_. You think it was somehow directly linked to what Moriarty said at the pool?"

"Yes- exactly. You understand now. I had concocted seventeen different fire scenarios for John's death, but not once did I think of a Guy Fawkes bonfire. It was  _just_  the sort of thing that Moriarty would do. I did manage to think of something along the lines of a terrorist bomb- but the underground train carriage was an inspired piece of plotting that I had not gotten to before I was ransomed."

Mary's body language telegraphs her fear, "You think that  _Lord Moran_  was somehow linked to Moriarty?" Diane hears a distinct edge in that question.

"I don't know, do I? Mycroft won't let me anywhere near the real inquiry, and that's already two months old. But it's likely."

"Was it Mycroft who ransomed you in China?" Mary's whole demeanor has changed, as if she is now trying to piece something together.

"Of course not, I'd have rather died than go to him for help."

"Then who?"

"None of your business. Or anyone else's, for that matter. What matters now is that you have to convince John to leave me alone, to put a lot of distance between us. Get him to write a blog post that publicly repudiates me. As soon as I can…get my head a bit straight, then I will leave."

Now he looks Mary straight in the eye, turning his body and leaning forward to add extra emphasis to his words. "You need to convince him it's for the best, and then get on with your lives. Promise me you will do that, Mary."

Diane recognises Sherlock's attempt to shut down the discussion. "Right, that's enough. it's time to pull the plug on this. You need some time to breathe. These sessions are only supposed to last for under an hour, and we're well over that."

Mary sinks back on the sofa, as if disappointed. "But, surely this is..."

Watching Sherlock's shoulders start to relax, Diane is firm. "No. Enough. Too much pressure now might undo the good done by the EMDR."

Mary sighs, but eventually nods, and Diane is relieved.

But she has not counted on John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: * for the back story on Pirate, read Musgrave Blaze. For the back story of Robert McGarry, that's in Periodic Tales, part Three of Sulphur


	28. Man Down

"… if I hadn't come back, he wouldn't be standing there next to me; he'd still have a future with  _you_."

As he hears Sherlock say these words to Mary, John remembers how distraught Sherlock had been at the time- the tears, on his knees asking for forgiveness. All that had been swept aside in John's memory, in part because of his own suspicions. He'd wagged his finger at Sherlock.  _This is a trick…another one of your bloody tricks._  He'd accused him of trying to make him say something nice, to make him look good even though he'd behaved so badly. The forgiveness when it finally came was grudgingly given. Reluctantly, forced out of him. No wonder Sherlock was still traumatised. And then when the bomb had been disarmed, he'd seen the laughter as Sherlock started taking the mickey out of him, of laughing at him, making fun of him at his gullibility. But, then he remembered what Sherlock had said on the second recording; that when he gets stressed he tries to defuse awkward situations by humour, even if it seemed inappropriate to others. It’s his way of trying to deflect anger.  _And like an idiot, I just got angrier._

Hayter is looking a little perplexed at the conversation, but then he didn't know about the bomb, apart from what he'd read in the papers, so John isn't surprised. Mycroft is still standing, listening to the conversation being relayed from next door. His face is impassive as he listens to his brother recounting the saga, and Mary's reply that he'd saved John.

Unaware of his listeners next door, Sherlock had continued talking to Mary. "…I see a scene where you're sitting in front of me, but the words that come out of your mouth are "John is dead. And it's all  _your_  fault. You killed him."

John actually winces at that. Mary wouldn't do that; at least he didn't think she would. She knew what being with Sherlock meant to John. She'd said as much last night when he’d been ranting with frustration about being kept away from Sherlock when he was clearly in need of medical help, if not moral support for whatever hell he was going through during his flashback.

The baritone continues and John listens until he heard the words, "I'm toxic. Father explained it to me when I was ten. Said I had killed mummy."

That provokes a groan from John, who glances up at Mycroft to see a flicker of pain cross his features, followed by a rather world-weary sigh when Sherlock tells Mary what Mycroft would have said about his mother's pancreatic cancer.

They exchange looks again when Sherlock mentions Pirate. The memory of uncovering the mystery behind that trauma is still reasonably fresh for both men, from the time when Sherlock had taken an equine kidnapping case at Musgrave Hall*. It had involved  _loss_ , but also physical trauma, which left Sherlock scarred in more ways than one. Somehow, it is all the more telling that he didn't mention now the physical side of the experience.

John doesn't recognise what Sherlock was talking about when it came to the dog, but watching Mycroft confirms his thoughts that it must have been distressing. When Sherlock talked about finding his chemistry master dead "because of my weakness", John has to ask.

"What happened?"

"It was, as he said, an aneurism. The first we knew about it was three days later, when Trinity College rang Parham to find out why Sherlock hadn't showed up. He left Harrow with nothing but the clothes on his back, and spent the next six months living rough on the streets of London. By the time I caught up with him, he was addicted to drugs."

John puts his elbows on the countertop and lowers his forehead onto his folded hands, looking down at the phone warily. What more secrets are about to be revealed?

As the story unfolds about Sherlock's treatment in China, John becomes even more disturbed. When Sherlock starts explaining the 'What if' scenarios, he can no longer bear it. "Oh, God…"

But, of the three men listening, it is George Hayter who really broke first, just after Diane Goodliffe had explained what happened to a hypervigilent, hypersensitive mind that was deprived of sensation. "Shit, that's  _torture_ ; it's worse than a physical beating any day."

It was Sherlock's description of Moriarty's men "frogmarching" John up to the roof of St Barts and throwing him off that brings John to his feet. Sherlock's comment that he would have assumed that he could  not understand what John had gone through cut him like a knife.  _Damn right, Sherlock; good deduction- that's exactly what I thought._ Once again, he's proved what an idiot he is. He rocks forward, propelled into movement as Sherlock recounts the variety of deaths he had imagined for John, and the pain of not being able to know what was real and what wasn't. As horrible as Sherlock's death had been for him, and no matter how many times he'd replayed the scenes, John cannot imagine what he might have done if every time it was  _new_.

When Sherlock says that he'd had no plans to return to London, John turns and glares at Mycroft. "You forced his hand, then?"

"It was for his own good."

But it’s when Sherlock says "That's when I understood that Moriarty has won" that John finally erupts.

"Fucking  _HELL_ ; he thinks the bonfire and tube bomb have something to do with Moriarty. But he's  _dead!_  Or, are you telling me that that's all a  _fake_  as well?" John marchs up to Mycroft and looks up, absolutely fuming with rage.

"Calm yourself, John." Mycroft is icy in his composure. "The Irishman is dead. Sherlock's concern is still a valid one, however. You have heard of a 'dead man's switch'? We cannot be sure what contingency plans he would have left behind, to be activated only in the case of Sherlock reappearing."

John smacks his cane on the tiled floor of the kitchen. "And just when the hell were you going to tell me?"

His only reply is an arched eyebrow, which John takes to be a criticism that only he is too stupid to have deduced that possibility which so clearly distresses Sherlock.

Then he hears Sherlock beg Mary, saying "You need to convince him it's for the best, and then get on with your lives. Promise me you will do that, Mary."

John growls, "That's enough. As much as I love Mary, this is not her call. I'm going in there. And nothing you do is going to stop me."

Mycroft sighs. "I can't let that happen."

John just laughs. "Mycroft,  _you_  aren't enough to stop me. Even with a crutch, I can take you down if you don't get out of my way."

"Mister Hayter?" Mycroft turns to George and raises an eyebrow, before responding to John. "Two against one is a different matter, especially when one is trained in commando martial arts."

John flicks a glance at the big ex-Army man, who had been sitting casually but is now getting to his feet and moving to block the exit. Each of the two men topped him by at least six inches and their combined weight is three times his. Any sane man would not contest this battle.

John stands up as straight as he can and squares his shoulders as he walks forward. " _Colonel_  Hayter, tell me this. Your mission is to recover a member of your team, lost behind enemy lines. He's been held by the enemy and tortured; he's right off his head. The platoon is under fire, and your acquisition target thinks he's the threat that's going to get you all killed. Would you listen to him when he tells you to piss off?"

John casts a sideways glance at Mycroft before returning his eyes to Hayter's. "Do you listen to the commander back at base who says abandon your man?" He comes straight up to George Hayter as he keeps talking, "Would you leave him behind,  _Colonel_? Or would you go in there, and convince him that you can make it happen- you can all get safely home. What would  _you_  do?"

He watches as the emotions play across Hayter's face.

John allows himself a small smile. "No, I didn't think so. Do us all a favour and keep Mister Holmes in here while I go see what I can do to rescue this mission." He walks pointedly around Hayter and out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In Periodic Tales, various chapters. The story of Pirate is the gist of my story Musgrave Blaze and also in Ex Files, Excruciate. The story behind Redbeard is covered in Periodic Tales, entitled Sodium.


	29. The Three of Us

"Doctor Watson, I cannot approve of this interruption. Sherlock, this is not sensible."

Diane is on her feet, and not holding back. The argument has been going on for just over a minute, triggered by the unexpected arrival of John Watson.

Standing with his back to the windows, as far from the door as he could be, Sherlock frowns at her. Without thinking, he lets out a rather world-weary groan of frustration. "Sensible?… what does that even mean in this context?"

The therapist has taken up a protective position, half way between Sherlock and John, but she turns back towards him now, drawn by his question. "You're exhausted; you need to rest. Confrontation is not a good idea until you've had time to process, to think things through calmly." Her voice had been firm when she had been talking to John, but is softer now as she speaks to him. He finds her alto soothing, almost compelling. There is a piece of him that just wants to hide behind that voice for protection.

From the doorway, John snaps, "Who said anything about confrontation? I didn't.  _You're_  the one making this confrontational." John's reaction to the therapist's hostile reception of his uninvited appearance is, well…frankly hostile, and it is unsettling for Sherlock. He's found value in the EMDR technique, and thinks it could be useful, especially as he thinks he would be able to do it on his own. He doesn’t want anyone to be fighting, least of all over him.

But, now faced with the very person that he'd reluctantly concluded he shouldn't see again, Sherlock finds his resolve weakening.

_John._

For just a moment, he lets himself indulge in the sight.  _This_  is the person for whom he'd done what he did- and here he is- alive, vital and so full of taut energy that it nearly takes Sherlock's breath away. For such a short man, John fills the room; so much so that Sherlock finds it hard to concentrate. At least Mary is sitting still on the sofa, keeping quiet, which is a relief.

"Sherlock?" Diane draws his attention back towards her. "Tell him…  _later._ It has to be later _."_

Whatever his head might be telling him about what is sensible, he won’t, can’t be the one to banish John. Sherlock doesn’t meet the therapist's eyes, and his glance falls onto the violin, now lying in its case on the sofa he'd abandoned when John came into the room. The fingers of his left hand open almost reflexively. But he stands still, knowing that the violin would just be another avoidance strategy.

Then John is in motion, going around the sofa Mary is sitting in, outflanking Diane. As he passes the fireplace, he eyes the skull sitting on the mantelpiece. "Didn't I break that?"

Sherlock winces. "Yes, when I got back to Baker Street, I found it in pieces in a shoe box under your bed. Why did you do it?"

"Not much point in keeping it around anymore; just reminded me of you. It just sat there, accusing me of failure. Couldn't stand it staring at me anymore so I threw it at the smiley face. I left Baker Street the next day."

John stops, leaning on his crutch. Perhaps because he knows his presence isn't welcomed by the therapist, John assumes a combative stance, shifting on the balls of his feet. His chin is jutting out in that way Sherlock recognises; like a cat whose fur stood on end, John can make himself  _bigger_  by the anger he projects.

"I'm sorry, John."

"You don't have to keep apologising. Why did you fix it?"

"I…um...need it again."

John grimaces. "Now it's my turn to say 'sorry'; I wasn't…well, it wasn't fair what I did."

"Actually, it was. I had…I  _have_  no right to expect anything but anger from you."

"Of course you did…you still do. It just took me a while to realise that."

Diane interjects. "Sherlock, that's enough. I really, really think you need to stop this now. And Doctor Watson, this is  _unprofessional_  of you. You know that the patient's well-being is more important than anything personal."

He watches John nod. "I agree- but only with that  _last_  point. That's why I'm here." John doesn't move his eyes away from Sherlock's. He licks his bottom lip. "That's why Sherlock and I are talking now." The shorter man seems almost to be daring him to stand his ground, to have the conversation, even if the therapist doesn't think it is wise. There is a lot of sub-text going on in that look, and Sherlock can read it, loud and clear.

He breaks eye contact and looks at the floor for a moment. He is tired, but he knows instinctively that John is right. He owes him this much. Honesty. He'd run away from telling him the truth last time, justifying it as a way of protecting him.  _I'm just a coward._ There is no excuse this time.

"I'm sorry, Miss Goodliffe, but it's best if we continue." Before John can get a word in, Sherlock keeps going. "I had no right to put you in danger in the underground train. No right to be the reason why you were put into a bonfire." He has to fight to get this out, but it has to be said.

John shrugs. "There are no rights or wrongs between us. If I end up in trouble because you are back, so what? I'd rather run that risk than not have you back."

"I warned you about being careful what you wish for. In your recording about the pool, you  _trusted_  me to find a way out. It happened again in the underground train. You expect too much of me. What happens when I fail? What happens when you die as a result of my failure?"

"I'll be dead." John shrugs again. "But, in the meantime, I'll be living the life of my choice. More important, what happens to  _you_  if that happens?"

A knot of anxiety spreads across Sherlock's abdomen. "I couldn't…I can't. Not again... n...not  _you_." He stutters to a halt, ashamed that his tongue can’t wrap itself properly around the words he wants to say. He has to look away, back at the window. The view of wide open spaces outside calls to him.

John's tone is resolute, dragging his attention back. "We've had some close shaves, but between us, we've gotten out of impossible situations more times than anyone could predict. When you're worrying about me being dead, that's  _your_  brain doing it. But no one is as clever as you are;  _they'll_  make mistakes."

Sherlock looks away again, as if seeing John standing there is too painful. "I make mistakes, too," he whispers.

"Yeah, I know that. You always miss something, don't you? Well, let me tell you what you've missed this time. I won't overestimate you, so long as you don't underestimate me. Between us, we've sorted everything that's been thrown at us.  _I_ 'm still alive, Sherlock, and so are you. And we're more likely to stay that way if I've got your back, and you've got mine."

He walks the rest of the way to Sherlock, who is just able to stand his ground when the smaller man comes in close. John looks up, and Sherlock sees compassion in those dark blue eyes.

John gives a tiny nod, knowing what he's done, invading Sherlock's personal space. "Fight or flight. That's the choice-  _for both of us_. On the first night you got back, when I was too pissed off with you to think straight, you said 'You've missed this.' You were right, damn you, as right about that as you were about my bloody moustache. The two of us against the world? I did miss that, but I missed  _you_  more. So much so that I nearly didn't want to bother with life at all."

Sherlock swallows; then hears himself saying it again, "Sorry _._ "

"Stop saying that."

Sherlock tries to take a deep breath but realises that his chest is beginning to feel constricted.

John keeps on, "You've got to stop thinking that somehow I don't want or need to be your friend, because I have Mary. It isn't  _either-or_. I need  _both_. And you have no right to take that away from me, just because you're scared that I might end up dead." He gives his head a shake. "And before anyone says anything, I know that's terribly  _SELFISH_ of me." He shoots a sour look at Diane. "I'm no hero, either. I can be an asshole just like anyone." He returns his eyes to Sherlock's.

"There's at least one person in the room who thinks this is just all wrong, me pushing you like this." He gestures towards the wall that is shared with the Manor House. "And I  _know_  that Mycroft's over there, well and truly pissed off with me for doing this."

That makes Sherlock's lip shift into a tiny quirk of amusement. "What'd you do to him? I have to see him before he gets his hands untied and the gag off."

John gives a little snort. "Nothing he didn't deserve. He underestimated me. People do. They don't get you and me.  _They_  don't understand. If it's not me shooting a cabbie to keep you alive, it's you jumping off a bloody building to keep me safe."

John flexes his left hand and takes a breath. "We both do what we can, but in the end- this dying business; it's a bit overrated. We're  _all_  going to die at some point. What was it Moriarty said? 'That's what people DO!'" He gives it the same maniacal emphasis on the last word as the Irishman had.

When there is a metallic tang of iron on his tongue, Sherlock realises he has bitten the inside of his cheek. "But at the pool… that was  _my fault_ ; I put you there and you nearly died. I can't do that again."

"No- it was Moriarty who put us  _both_  there. And it doesn't matter. Neither of us knows when or how it's going to happen. You could get cancer tomorrow. I could get hit by a bus crossing the road because I can't move fast enough on this fucking crutch." He looks down at the offending item with a look of disgust, then back up at Sherlock.

"I didn't explain it well enough on that bloody tape. I wasn't trusting you to get us out of there. It was more a case of being willing to be there, whatever happened. That's what I meant by trust, Sherlock. I'd rather die moving forward, with you by my side, facing the enemy. That's something everyone gets taught in the army- even the doctors…  _especially_  the doctors. There are more casualties when soldiers retreat than when they are advancing. Running away is riskier."

Sherlock can’t meet his eye. "You're not a soldier anymore, John." He glances at Mary. "You're a civilian." He mumbles, "You won't be a casualty if you aren't in the war."

From the couch, Mary snorts. "Tell that to non-combatants. There are plenty of people grieving over lives lost from collateral damage. Sherlock, I don't want John to be one of them. He's a soldier. Sometimes, it is safer to take up arms to protect the people you love. You did that, on John's behalf. Now you can do it together. I agree with John. Don't use me as an excuse."

John nods. "When it comes to life, it doesn't matter how long we've  _got_ ; it's what we do with the time we are  _given_. And, for me, that means working and spending time with  _you_. Yeah, I know that's selfish, but I can get away with it because I know you need me, too. You try to pretend that doesn't matter, with your 'alone is what I have' and all that."

He looks up, and Sherlock clenches his jaw, trying to keep the emotions from showing up in his eyes. He tries to deflect, "I don't  _pretend_."

John smiles- a real one. "Yeah, you do."

The real affection in that comment makes Sherlock's eyes tear up, and he has to dig the nail of his left index finger into the fleshy part of his thumb, this time hard enough to draw blood.

John sees it and keeps going anyway. "And you know how good being needed makes me feel." He laughes in self-deprecation. "You know, half of the reason why I was angry about your disappearing act was because you thought you didn't need me to be there with you. The other half? I thought you didn't give a damn what your death would do to me."

"Like I said, I can be an idiot. It cost you more than I can possibly imagine. I had to deal with you dying just the once, while you drove yourself around the bend by killing me off in a hundred different scenarios that only you'd be daft enough to imagine in such detail."

He rolls his eyes. "Jeeze, Sherlock - only  _you_  could manage to torture yourself."

Sherlock gives him a startled look, then warily, "I cleared this room of Mycroft's bugs; how do you know about that?"

From the couch, Mary sits forward and picks up the phone beside her, waving it. "Sorry, Sherlock. It was the only way I could get John to let me come when Diane asked."

Now it is Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "So, now I have to start being paranoid about you, too, John?"

"No, you don't, because now, at last, we're finally talking. I meant what I said - I find this really difficult. I don't talk comfortably about any of this." He gives another soft laugh. "Normal people don't talk like this. But you're not normal, and neither am I, and this sure the hell isn't a normal situation. So, I need to talk, and so do you. It isn't about blame or apologies- we're  _so_  past that now. That's not going to change what happened. But nothing that happened is going to change  _this_ , either." He gestures with his left hand between the two of them.

In that moment, Sherlock knows John is right.  _This._ It is something that had been missing since he'd got back, but he feels it now. A seismic shift. The connection is not conscious, but deeper down, almost visceral.  _This_  speaks of a trust that defies logic. It isn't about who is protecting whom. It’s something altogether better, of being together, willing to face whatever is thrown at them. All his intellectual debates about putting distance between them are just…ridiculous. He sweeps them away. He lets his eyes drift over to the skull on the mantelpiece. Wisely, she keeps silent. Something seems to shake free in Sherlock. He returns his gaze to John and smiles; his shoulders relax and he finds he can breathe more freely.

John sees the change and smiles back. " _That was then; this is now_ \- Words of wisdom from someone I used to think of – and still do, by the way- as the wisest man I knew...know…" He smirks, "… and, I'll say it before you do, or am likely ever to know."

Sherlock bites his tongue behind his smile, because he'd actually drawn breath to say just that.

John's grin is infectious. "So, we're going to figure this out. It won't be the same as it was before, but it will be  _good_ , because it's better than any alternative." Taking a breather, he looks away, as if a bit embarrassed. Tucking his chin in, he continues quietly, "Whatever life I have now with you hereafter is better than any life I could ever have without you around. That's it. That's all it ever was, Sherlock. All it ever is. And it's enough."

Sherlock marvels at the certainty in John's eyes. As if he knows something that Sherlock has been denying for weeks, months even. Does he have the right to endanger such a good person, to give into his own  _need_? For a moment, he wavers.

As if John is reading his mind, his eyes narrow and his head tilts. "Don't you _dare!_ If you try to push me away now because somehow you think that's safer, I will die a worse death- it might be years before it happens, but I will be so pissed off, watching what being alone does to you- well, it won't make those years worthwhile for either of us. There is more to life than survival, Sherlock."

Sherlock cannot find the words. What he is feeling is too raw, too strong to be held in the shape of words. All he could do is sigh.

John hears it. His voice drops, and softens. "And that means I'm going to say this just once so you'd better be listening. No more scenes like the one in the gym; no knives at your own throat. The fastest way you can kill me is to do something as stupid as that. And no disappearing act, either. That's bloody selfish. That would put a terrible burden on Mary. Because when I thought you were dead, I was willing to accept that loving her was the best I was going to get. Now that you're back, she alone won't be enough. By the way?  _She's_  the one who reminded me of that last night, when I was stomping around next door in a strop because you wouldn't let me sew your hand up."

Mary gets up from the sofa and walks over the John, putting an arm around his waist. "Sherlock, the best protection he can get is to have both of us on his side. He  _wants_  both of us in his life. And I get that."

John leans into her. "Mary knows what you mean to me, even if you can't seem to wrap that Mind Palace of yours around it."

Looking at the two of them, he sees their calm determination- the steel inside each of them, wrapped around by such a conventional, normal exterior.  _They are so well suited to each other_. He has to ask, "Why? Why would you both…care about me, when you have each other?"

For some reason, that question unnerves John. Sherlock watches, confused as the man's eyes filled and he blinked. Almost by reflex, Mary tightens her hold on John, as if giving him support.

The silence lengthens.

Finally John manages to find words. "Because I do, and so does she. And the fact that you don't seem to understand that? It means this time  _I'm_  making the decision. You did it last time- disappearing without talking to me about it. This time you don't get to decide. It's my turn. Unlike you, I'm doing the courtesy of telling you. So, just shut the fuck up and accept it."

He knows his brow had wrinkled, and then Sherlock feels his chin coming up. "Taking lessons from Mycroft, are you?"

That makes Mary laugh. John shakes his head, "No, I'm not trying to control you; I'm just taking a decision for the  _both_  of us. That's what friends do. They protect each other. Last time you did it for me, now I'm doing it for you."

John nods his head back at Diane, who is still standing, her arms crossed, wearing something of a wary expression. "If working with her helps, then do it. Take those stupid memories of my dying out from under the floorboards of your Mind Palace or wherever you stuffed them, and use that violin to get rid of them. If you do that, then by the time of the wedding, they'll be gone. In the meantime, we'll be doing things together that aren't all about dying. I want to get back to solving weird and wonderful cases that you used to like- not the big earth-shattering stuff designed to impress your brother. I'm talking about comic book geeks and speckled blondes. The stuff that isn't  _boring._ "

Sherlock closes his eyes and does a deep breathing exercise to steady himself. "Do I get a choice in any of this?"

"About the cases? Of course. Nothing less than a six. About the rest of it? Nope. This one's  _my_  call."

Sherlock opens his eyes and tilts his head. "I'm not exactly firing on all cylinders here." He looked pointedly at the crutch. "Neither are you."

John shrugs. "So what, we can work on that." He laughes. "I'm not saying this is a 'happy-ever-after' thing; we've got a lot of stuff to work out. Knowing you? Hell, knowing  _us_ , it'll be two steps forward and one step back, with the occasional leap sideways, too. Just…let's get on with it."

Sherlock sees his opportunity. "One condition."

John looks surprised. "What?"

"You come to Baker Street for sessions with Miss Goodliffe to get over your PTSD. It really works, John, and I'm an idiot for not making you do it years ago. That crutch has got to go, it's worse than the moustache."

Mary giggles.

John gives her a sham glower, but smiles.

Sherlock's smile matches it.


	30. It's Christmas

"Nice place to take a breather!"

Diane is still a little puffed, and the stiff breeze pulls the words away from her mouth, but she knows that Sherlock will hear her anyway. He is sitting next to her on the iron bench, those grey green eyes devouring the scene in front of them.

They'd left the Mole River near its source at Capel, crossing fields for one and half kilometers to Rusper Road before dropping down from a bridge to the start of what Sherlock called Fylles Brook. She doesn't know the area at all, so has let him lead the way. What had seemed little more than a drainage ditch meandered quietly south westwards until they went under a rail bridge, where Sherlock had announced "behold Bolding's Brook".

Following the informal path along the stream that skirted the town of Wareham, Diane had been surprised at how quiet the roads were, and when they passed under the A264, it was empty of traffic.

Sherlock had noticed her surprise, and smiled. "Christmas morning- the only good thing about it is that it's quiet. Best time of the season to be out on the land. Tomorrow the footpaths will be full of people trying to walk off the excesses of too much food and the strain of playing happy families."

She has insisted they stop for some hot coffee and take in the pleasures of the pond. Diane had made it for the flask before they'd set out from Hartswood at first light. She breaks off a piece of 70% dark chocolate and hands it over. He takes it and smirked. "Caffeine and dark chocolate? You do like to feed my need for stimulation."

Her laugh is genuine. "This one's legal, Sherlock." She is glad Sherlock has agreed to her accompanying him; she wants to know how he is dealing with the revelations of his conversation with John and Mary. His mood seems much calmer, and positive.  _Thank you, John Watson._

He certainly looks different. He's put away the suit and donned his casual clothes: a dark green sweater over a plain white shirt, and navy mole-skin trousers, with a well-worn pair of hiking boots. He'd left his posh coat behind, and stepped out of the door, shouldering on an aged Barbour jacket. The waxed cotton flat cap completed the picture of Sherlock in his country plumage. Interestingly, she realises that it suits him as much as suit does his city persona. But, then Sherlock had walked away southwards from Hartswood Manor, and she had been surprised. Diane had assumed that he would head north, towards the Thames and London. She knows that Watson and Mary were heading back there by mid-morning, driven by George Hayter, who has decided to spend Christmas Day with an old Army buddy in west London.

He'd reached the bottom of the garden where she and he had once sat watching the magpies when she had asked, "Why this direction? Where are we going?"

He'd stopped and looked back at her with a slightly puzzled look. "Isn't it obvious?"

She'd shaken her head.

He had pointed upstream. "That way- another seven miles or so we reach the source of the River Mole; then up and over a hill, we pick up one of the tributaries of the River Arun. Another twenty or so miles downstream, and it will pass the western border of Parham."

 _Oh!_  She wasn't entirely sure why, but that thought had given her immense pleasure. "You're going  _home_!"

His brow had furrowed. "I'm not sure I would call it that…over the past decade my visits have been few and far between, and very fleeting- it's Mycroft's territory, not mine. I haven't thought of it as 'home' for at least twenty years."

"So, why are we going there?"

"I've never walked in this direction before. Before today, it's always been  _away_  from Parham". He had looked upstream. "Sometimes seeing the same things from a completely different perspective can be revealing."

oOo

Now sitting on a bench overlooking Warnham Mill Pond, she hunkers into her down jacket and pulls the woolen hat down over her ears. Only the gloved hand holding the coffee is warm enough to be comfortable. All that said, she is enjoying the fact that they seem to be the only people watching the ducks. Through the leafless trees behind them, she an see the back end of semi-detached houses. "Have you stopped here before?"

He frowns. "Why would I?"

She gestures at the idyllic scene in front of them. "It's beautiful?"

Sherlock sniffs. "Not from the other direction. The path on the other side of the pond is shorter and I've always used it going northward. It gives a horrid view of too many boring suburban backyards. Behind us, if you can bear to look, is Littlehaven- commuter belt blot on the landscape."

Diane laughes. "As the Buddha said, ' _few cross the river of time and are able to reach peace. Most run up and down only on this side of the river_.'"

"Exactly my point about this journey; going in the opposite direction yields new insight. Still, I can't ignore the brooding presence of suburbia; I know it's there. Once we get around Horsham, it will improve. When we meet the Arun, perversely, we have to head north again as well as west to get around Broadbridge Heath. At Buck's Green we turn south at last- but at least it's proper countryside."

"Buck's Green-that's where the Fox Inn is; I'll call ahead."

He grimaces. "No way. Pub Christmas lunches are my version of hell. Even worse than a family meal."

"Relax. I'll ask them to pack us up some turkey sandwiches and hot soup for the flask". She swipes her phone. A moment later she says, "According to FourSquare, there is a picnic spot with benches by the river so you can avoid the crowds."

He sniffs. "Stopping will mean getting to Parham well after dark. You should take up Mycroft's offer and get one of his drivers to pick you up at the Fox."

Diane has to admit that the idea of the walk is turning out to be much longer than she had anticipated. When she thought he was heading north, her plan had been to stop at Box Hill and then walk home. "Will the dark cause you any problems?"

He smirks. "No. It's a moonlit night, and the weather report says there will be no cloud cover."

"Cold then."

"If I keep moving, it won't matter."

She assesses his mood. "You want to walk the last part alone?"

"Yes."

She nods. "I agree- with one caveat- you have to eat something with me at Buck's Green before you head off. You've got lots to think about, I expect. Low blood sugar is not good for the brain."

"Walking is a way of  _not_  thinking." He looks across the pond. "There will be time to  _think_  later. Right now, I just need to clear out some…debris."

She sees that as an opening. "Now is as good a time as any to apologise. I was worried yesterday, and I am sorry that I let that interfere. It's not easy knowing what the right thing to do is, when a client is struggling. And when someone as…incendiary as John Watson shows up suddenly, I wasn't sure it would help matters."

"It worked out."

Diane nods, in part to make sure he knew that she agreed. She has learned that with Sherlock, sometimes things that would have been obvious to most people elude him. Laser like insights about other people sat quite comfortably alongside his own blindness to the way people think of him- an extraordinary contradiction, yet it makes him more human, and just a tad vulnerable.  _Not that he'd ever admit it._

"I should tell you something. You know I asked people for things…items to help you with the guided imagery." He is watching one spot on the water, so she follows his gaze, but doesn't see anything in particular. After a moment, a cormorant bobs up into view.  _He sees things under the surface._ That raises a smirk- as long as they aren't relating to him. She continues, "The skull, the box and the violin were, I suppose, the obvious ones. But I guess I should have listened to the Detective Inspector. He said what you needed more was John Watson."

Almost instantly there is a firm "Yes," followed by a pause. "You will help him with the EMDR, won't you? I should have asked you first, but it seemed…well, the right time to get him to promise."

"Of course. So long as you also keep to the schedule, too. You can't ask him to attend therapy sessions if you don't."

"Fair enough."

She thinks about his apparent change of heart, wondering for a moment whether this is just him jumping through hoops again. "What's changed?"

This gets a wry smile. "Everything."

"You can do better than that." She puts enough tease in her voice to make the point.

"I'm not sure I can explain it. Not easily. I suppose it comes down to believing that I can hope again. That things will get better. Or, maybe it's realising that the best thing in my life survived somehow, despite the last two years. I never expected that. It won't be the same. It can't be- not with everything that's happened. But, it could be good again. I might still make a mess of it, but…it's worth a try."

There is enough stumbling honesty in that, and she appreciates his willingness to be open with her. She doesn't know him well enough to decide whether she is being played. The trouble is, most people would not take Sherlock at face value. She considers that, and decides that she will. He just might find that refreshing.

Diane decides he'll be okay to finish the journey on his own; it seems important for him to do that. She pulls out her phone, and taps in the number Mycroft had given her before he'd left last night. She'll bail out at Bucks Green.

oOo

Sherlock takes a shortcut through Pullborough, and uses the road bridge to get onto the left bank of the River Arun. He's spent the past eight hours enjoying the river and cleaning up his Mind Palace. The walking has become a rhythm for his mental processes, and the hard exercise have cleared his head of the last vestiges of the detox. He feels good- cold, but  _alive_. When the lights of the town become visible, he leaves the river, cuts straight through the quiet streets and starts across the fields south of the town, keeping the RSPB sanctuary to his left. The moon gives him just enough light to see, but even so the soft ground of the water meadows means he is going to end up with mud up to his knees. Despite the mess, it is exhilarating to be out in the wild. Swans sleeping on the higher ground are luminous pools of white in the fading moonlight, and he gives them a wide berth.

As he comes up to the tree-lined Greatham Lane, he can see on the south side the high stone wall encircling Parham. He waits. The moon is just about to set, and he wants to use that to his advantage. He stays in the brush, just far enough from the road to avoid being seen by the cameras that he knows are there, guarding the perimeter. By the time full darkness descends he has found the drainage ditch.  _Now for the dirty work._  He smirks. Sherlock wants to see if he can get into the Park without Mycroft's security team being any the wiser.

He pulls out his torch, drops to the ground and wiggles into the concrete conduit under the road. It is just over a meter in diameter, and the bottom is full of mud. As he slithers along he can see that other animals had taken the same path- most recently a badger. It had been put there years ago for just that purpose. He knew that the exit of the conduit, under the stone wall and into the park, just at the bank of the pond would be part of the security system- sensors are there for a reason. The key will be to avoid the camera that will be triggered by the sensor to swing from its usual position on the wall looking over the street to take a closer look in the opposite direction. If it sees nothing, then the staff watching will just assume that it has been a small mammal, perhaps a fox. All this is realised through deduction and knowing how his brother's mind works. He wouldn't waste the resources to have a camera permanently facing away from the outside wall and road, the more likely entry point of a threat.

Sherlock is through and into the bulrushes just before the camera has time to move. He waits, counting the minutes. When his bones start to ache from the cold and damp, he finally hears the camera return to its normal position, so he gets to his feet and moves off. Another twenty minutes and he will reach the house. He wants to be there before ten p.m.

Delighting in the sounds of the resident tawny owls, he moves through the park, avoiding the tarmacked roads and well-worn tracks. He keeps to the trees, and uses the deer trails. He knows these will not be monitored- too many animal movements make that impractical. He knows, too, that he won't be able to avoid the camera and security net around the house itself, but by then his point would have been made. So, he walks straight in the main gate onto the circular drive between the main house and the Georgian block. The gravel crunches beneath his feet.

The windows of the house are still lit; curtains drawn. He has not seen the house like this in years, but it is still such a familiar, welcoming sight. He closes his eyes and waits for the high intensity security lights to snap on, bracing himself for the assault on his retinas.

Nothing happens.

Warily, he opens his eyes again and looks about, rather perplexed.

"I told them to turn them off."

Sherlock whirls around, and peers into the darkness in front of the clock tower that faces the house. Then he spots the single red ember at exactly the same time as his nose registered the scent of tobacco- a cigarette.

"When did you start smoking again?" He walks toward the disembodied voice.

"While you were gone."

"Why?"

There is a snort. "The stimulant effects of nicotine are all too familiar to you. I needn't explain."

"But, you quit years ago, all superior- 'mind over matter, brother mine', you sneered."

"Call it sentiment then." This is delivered in a slightly mocking tone. "It reminded me of you."

By now, Sherlock is within a few feet of where Mycroft is sitting on one of the wooden benches that ornament the front façade. He is bundled up in a great coat, wearing what Sherlock recognises as a Serbian officer's hat, holding the cigarette in gloved hands. He stands up as Sherlock approaches. "Good lord, Sherlock- you're covered in mud."

Sherlock chuckles. "Offends your OCD sensibilities, does it?"

"More like my nose- you smell of…" there is another sniff, "… badger shit." After a brief pause, "Oh, I see. The conduit under Greatham Lane. Hmm, I shall have to warn the security team- getting a bit lax." He sniffs, "They're rather understaffed tonight. Well, it is the holidays, after all."

Sherlock extends his right hand, first two fingers splayed into a vee. "Let me have the rest of that cigarette. They wouldn't let me smoke at Hartswood and I've been dying for one."

"I do hope that is a figure of speech, Sherlock."

He chuckles. "You'll be stuck with me for a while longer."

Mycroft takes another quick puff, then hands it over. "Made your peace with Watson, then?"

Sherlock glowers, knowing his brother will deduce the reaction without having to see it. He takes  a ferociously deep drag at the cigarette, which burns brighter from the oxygen being pulled through it. He expells the plume of smoke, watching it join his breath vaporising in the cold. "You should know; you were listening." He sniffs. "Is your presence here a sign that the wretched GPS thing is still at work?"

"No. I calculated the probability of your likely destination and approximate time of arrival. You were quicker than I thought. You've made a good recovery from withdrawal." Mycroft rubs his gloved hands together for warmth. "It's freezing out here, so I am grateful for your speed. By the way, I sent the GPS laptop back to London. You have an appointment on the 27th, 11.30 at the Worthing hospital, where the tracker will be removed. I've told them to do it under local anaesthetic- just so you can stay awake and therefore be sure that it is really gone….I trust you've made other arrangements to continue with therapy?"

"Yes. Apparently, I have 'issues' that need to be worked on."

Mycroft snorts. "Yes, you could say that. Anyway, welcome home, Sherlock. Shall we go in?"

Sherlock takes another deep drag – the last that the cigarette could offer- and holds it deep in his lungs. As he expels the smoke, he drops the butt and grinds it out with his shoe. He smirks at the look of disapproval from his brother, barely visible in the light from the windows. "Yes, let's- I can't wait to see the look on Mrs Walters' face when I track mud onto the hall carpet."

Mycroft falls into stride alongside him, and they both head for the front door. "Whatever else has happened, Sherlock, it's nice to know that some things never change."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Magpie: One for Sorrow. While I prepare Magpie: Two for Joy for publication, you may like to amuse yourselves with a new story co-authored with the incomparable J_Baillier, part of the "You Go to My Head" series. This is the sequel to Take Heart, called Scar Tissue.


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